<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>running up that hill by eg1701</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29074854">running up that hill</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/eg1701/pseuds/eg1701'>eg1701</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Succession (TV 2018)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - 1980s, Art, Character Death, F/M, Ghosts, Homophobic Language, Infidelity, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Painting, Period Typical Attitudes, Scotland, Slow Burn, Sort Of, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, and 1860s, but both are pretty light and minor, death is kind of a relative term in this one, even though there kinda is a little bit, in the tomgreg sense of the word, probably, the roys being...the roys, tom and shiv's poorly negotiated open marriage, which is why i didnt tag it major character death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 10:01:26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>43</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>52,062</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29074854</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/eg1701/pseuds/eg1701</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It's 1985, and Tom hopes the trip to the Scottish Highlands with the Roy family will be a nice second honeymoon. </p>
<p>That doesn't really happen for a couple of reasons, some of them more drastic than others. His dreams of rekindling their marriage are quickly crushed. </p>
<p>And it's definitely not his fault the year 1860 is following him around.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Greg Hirsch/Tom Wambsgans, Siobhan "Shiv" Roy/Tom Wambsgans</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>305</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>89</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Frederic, Lord Leighton. Painter's Honeymoon. 1864</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>the outlander/11.22.63/somewhere in time au that doesn't <i>need</i> to exist, but sure does!</p>
<p>chapter titles are all the names of paintings! I'll link them when I can!</p>
<p> </p>
<p><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Painter%27s_Honeymoon">painter's honeymoon</a><br/> </p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The Roy family’s manor in the Highlands, Tom had been told, was over two hundred years old, had been in the family for a good portion of those years, and was worth half a million dollars. Tom, who never quite understood why historic homes could be worth so much, didn’t believe the price until he had actually seen the place for the first time. </p><p>It was on a sprawling estate, and frankly looked like Manderlay or Northanger Abbey. The cars drove down the winding road to the manor house, past trees and lake, and, if Tom’s eyes weren’t mistaken, an honest to God hedge maze, though it was more than likely just some hedges.</p><p>“A little Overlook-y no?” he asked Shiv, who glanced up from her book at his voice. </p><p>“It’s just old,” she rolled her eyes, “Dad’s the only one who likes this place.”</p><p>The cars arrived at the front of the home, and when Tom stepped out into the drizzle, he glanced up. It looked almost like a castle from a story book, all torrents and towers. He half expected there to be secret passages and several murders in its history.</p><p>Tom, who had always loved a good horror film and a good scary story, thought he might actually enjoy the time here. He and Shiv weren’t doing well, that was true-- he stole a glance at her, but she was showing whatever was in her book to Roman. Tom had thought this had potential for a second honeymoon. Sure, Shiv’s family was here, but the house was enormous. Surely they could find some time away from all that to be alone. </p><p>“Honey?” Shiv called, and Tom tore his eyes away from the house to look over, “Do you want to go get settled? I need to do just a brief meeting with Dad but I’ll see you up there?”</p><p>“Sure,” Tom smiled. He wasn’t going to be argumentative. He wasn’t going to complain. Somewhere deep down he really believed that if this trip was good, if he and Shiv could spend some time together, then maybe it could <i>feel</i> like it used to before they were married. </p><p>Tom had always been too hopeful.</p><p>He took one bag, and followed one of the staff upstairs. It was freezing in the hallways, and his shoes echoed with every step. The walls were lined with Roy family heirlooms. Swords and tapestries and famish crests. He knew he looked like a fucking tourist or something gawking at all of them as he followed the woman up the stairs, but he had heard so much about the Roys Scottish manor house, he hated to admit it but he was excited to see it.</p><p>The room was beautifully decorated in plaids and wool and velvet. He set the bag down on the bed and ran a hand over the curtains, which were a deep red. It was like stepping back in time in a way. Shiv had said on the drive over that the place had hardly changed much since the mid twentieth century when some of the appliances were updated. </p><p>There was a painting on the wall across from the bed. Tom cocked his head to look at the signature in the corner, but he couldn’t quite make it out. Something with an M, he thought, but it was smudged a bit. </p><p>He thought it was probably a painting of the house as it had been for the painter whenever they had existed. It felt almost like he was touching history. Tom had always liked museums and art galleries. Over summer breaks and long weekends, he and his mother used to go into the city and make a whole day out of it. He always liked the history museums the best. </p><p><i>“Look Tommy,</i>” his mother would say, bending down to be level with him, <i>“It’s like we’re right there with them.”</i></p><p>The painting was set on a sunny day. He recognized the tree in the photo as the tree outside, though it was much older now. It looked like there was a figure in the upper right window, though he couldn’t be sure. He squinted, but could make out no more than maybe the shoulders. </p><p>Actually though… he glanced back at the window, where the curtains had been pulled back. That was his-- their-- window. </p><p>The floor creaking with every step, Tom went over and pushed it open. He was met with some resistance, like no one had tried to open it in a bit, but he managed to push it open and he stuck his head out. Sure enough, there was the tree. He tried to imagine the painter sitting down there a ways, looking up at him now and it sent a shiver down his spine. </p><p>“What are you doing?” Shiv asked. </p><p>He smacked his head on the window and stepped back into the room. Rubbing absentmindedly at the spot, he turned, “I think that painting has someone painted in this room. I was just looking outside for where they might have painted from.”</p><p>Even saying it, he thought it sounded stupid. </p><p>Shiv rolled her eyes, but it wasn’t unkind. More like the kind of eye roll you’d give a child you were fondly exasperated with. </p><p>“Did you get it all talked through with your dad?”</p><p>She nodded and peeled off her coat. It was a new one he bought her for their six month wedding anniversary. It was a pale blue, and matched the pants she was wearing. He had never seen her wear it until today, and had to wonder if maybe she too thought this might be the place to rekindle things. If she was wearing it to show that she hadn’t forgotten he had gifted it to her.</p><p>“Dad said that, quote, ‘that fucking B list actor doesn’t know the rules around here.’”</p><p>“Didn’t your dad vote for him?”</p><p>Shiv shrugged, “He never likes who’s in office. Dad thinks <i>he</i> should be the one in the Oval Office.”</p><p>“He likes Reagan's economics though no? Doesn’t he think that’s good?”</p><p>“Nothings good if they don’t answer the phone when Dad calls. When Carter first got into office Dad couldn’t reach him for two weeks. He was furious.”</p><p>Tom chuckled. He wasn’t sure it was a joke or something he was supposed to laugh at but it felt like the right thing to do. </p><p>“Do you know anything about this painting?” Tom asked as Shiv made her way into the bathroom, “I was wondering when it was done.”</p><p>“Uhh,” she popped her head out, towel in hand, “I’m not sure. Some like great great great aunt or something did a lot of the paintings in the house. It might be dated if you look on the back.”</p><p>Carefully, he took the pairing down off the wall. It wasn’t too big and he probably could have done it before, but since Shiv had told him it was alright, he wasn’t as worried about what might happen if it slipped out of his hand and cracked in half. </p><p>He took the pairing to the bed, and set it down in the quilt. The back was a little dusty but after a moment of scouring, he found small writing in the bottom left corner. </p><p><i> For Thomas, 2 July, 1860</i> </p><p>Thomas, he knew, was a very common name. There had been a million Thomas’ throughout history but holding a painting with his name on it, from nearly a hundred and fifty years ago still sent a shiver down his spine. </p><p>He had to wonder about the <i>other</i> Thomas who had stayed here back in 1860. What had he done to earn the painter's affections?</p><p>“When was it?” Shiv came up beside him and he jumped again, “What’s got you so worked up?”</p><p>“Just the general spooky atmosphere of a place this old,” he replied, “Look, it’s got my name on it.”</p><p>“Oh are you from,” she squinted at the date, “1860? You’re a lot older than I thought you were. How about you put the painting back on the wall and then you and I test this bed out.”</p><p>Not needing a second invitation, Tom scurried to put the painting back up, though he took care to make sure it wasn’t crooked. The name was common, he reminded himself, there was nothing to feel strange about it. It wasn’t like the painting was a gift to <i>him.</i> It was just a piece of history. That was all. </p><p>He put the painting out of his mind.</p><p>When he turned back, Shiv had kicked off her heels and was standing on the bed, “Come on up.”</p><p>“This seems a little dangerous. How old is this bed?” he asked, taking off his own shoes and accepting her hand up. He wobbled a bit, using Shiv to keep him balanced, “This isn’t exactly what I thought you had in mind when you said we should test out the bed.”</p><p>“I know,” she put a hand on his cheek and stood up to kiss him, “I thought we, well, I know you want this to be a second honeymoon. To <i>fix</i> things right?”</p><p>“Well-”</p><p>She shook her head, “And you’re right. We’ve been distant. I’ve been busy with work and you’ve been busy with work. We haven’t had time to be married right? Even at our first honeymoon we had to go back a little early. This could be good. We can reconnect.”</p><p>“I would like that,” he said, settling his hands on his waist and kissing her. </p><p>He didn’t know exactly if it was possible. After Shiv had asked for an open marriage he had lost a lot of faith in marriage in general and he knew it was not something she was going to take back. But, he figured, this house was so isolated from the town nearby, and maybe if it was just them, and he was her only option, she’d realize she could be happy with just him.</p><p>Jesus, wasn’t <i>that</i> miserable.</p><p>“Come on,” she tugged at his belt, “Let’s <i>actually</i> test out this bed.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Abbey, Edwin Austin. King Lear Act I, Scene I. 1898</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Tom founds out a bit of Roy family history</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <a href="https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/10049">King Lear Act I Scene I</a>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The first several days, everyone did as they pleased. Tom wandered the house whenever Shiv was with her father or brothers. He came across Willa in the library with a book of plays by someone he’d never heard of open in front of her. </p>
<p>“Where’s Connor?” he asked. Tom used to feel better than Willa, as nasty as it was, because he was an actual partner, marriage certificate and all. Shiv didn’t have to pay him to keep him around. </p>
<p>“Where’s Shiv?” she replied, without bothering to look up at him.</p>
<p>Sometimes, now, when he was alone in bed and Shiv had yet to come home, he wondered if maybe Willa was the one with the right idea. He thought about apologizing for the way he’d spoken to her in the past, but Connor and his rented girl-- that was how Marcia had phrased it once-- were often the butt of the Roy family jokes, and anything that could give him some kind of deeper connection to the Roys was fine by him.</p>
<p>He didn’t reply and turned away, examining a big family bible open on display on one of the tables. He thought that he heard Willa giggle behind him, and felt himself redden. But he was not going to give her the satisfaction of knowing that she got to him.</p>
<p>The library smelled like old books and ink. There were rows upon rows of books, and above the bible, another painting. Tom, much to his parents dismay, had minored in art history in college. It wasn’t as useful as they hoped it would be, but when he’d enjoyed it so much, they had loosened up. Though it had been several years now since he’d used any of his college minor, he was pretty sure the artist behind this painting-- of what he <i>thought</i> was King Lear-- was the same as the painting in the bedroom. The artist, he would have said in an essay, had a distinct style and seemed to only use about ten colors in their work. It had a distinctly gloomy air about it, perhaps inspired by the gloomy weather outside, as it was, after all, Scotland. </p>
<p>The bible was at least twice the height of one you might find behind a pew in church, and at least three times as thick. It was open to the New Testament, though a gentle flip to the beginning showed that the Roys had been keeping track of births and deaths in it since the 1700s. He felt a little foolish obsessing over the painting in his bedroom, but flipped to the mid-1800s anyway. He just wanted to know. </p>
<p>There was no birth recorded for 1860-- that had been his first thought, that a baby named Thomas had been born around then, and the painter had given the manor house painting as a gift. But there was not a single birth recorded for 1860. A glance to the previous year showed the same. No births, no baptisms, no marriages-- nothing. </p>
<p>This was stupid and he knew it. It was just a painting in an old house. It didn’t mean anything, and again, it wasn’t like it was meant for him. </p>
<p>There was a death though, in late 1860. Just one man, a smudged first name and a middle name and no last name. It was more than likely Roy after all, so why record it. He thought the middle name was Samuel but he couldn’t be certain. The only clear words were the death date.. How fucking morbid. The man was dead and the only thing he could tell a hundred and twenty five years later was his fucking middle name and the date he died.</p>
<p>September 20, 1860. That wasn’t the answer he wanted, but it was all the information the Roy family bible had to give him on 1860. </p>
<p>“Ah,” someone said, and Tom tuned quickly, “Found the old bible have you?”</p>
<p>“Hello Logan,” he smiled, “It’s a beautiful book.”</p>
<p>“It’s an heirloom. Started generations ago. Every fuckin’ Roy ever born is in those pages. Every marriage, every birth, and every death. Your marriage should be in there,” he waved, “We have someone keep track, even when we’re in the states. That’s always been the case.”</p>
<p>“Shiv mentioned something about an aunt who was a painter?” Tom asked. He wasn’t sure if Longan would know. It seemed a toss up on what, exactly, Logan would talk about. He loved his military history, but family history was hit or miss. And even more so when it was Tom, who Logan had once called “fathoms beneath” Shiv when he had been angry with her. </p>
<p>“Marianne,” Logan nodded stiffly, “She was quite talented. There’s several of her pieces around the place. Didn’t you do fucking art or some bullshit?”</p>
<p>“Art history yes,” Tom replied, more than used to Logan’s digs by now, “Can I ask a question about a name in here?”</p>
<p>“You can but there’s no promise I’ll have the answer.”</p>
<p>Logan came over to look at the name Samuel whoever, who died in September 1860. Tom pointed at it, careful not to touch the paper, fearful Logan might shout at him over it.</p>
<p>“He was young,” Tom said, “I thought maybe something happened.”</p>
<p>Logan frowned-- Tom had to give him credit. He and his father in law were no bosom buddies by any fucking means. Maybe this wasn’t just a second chance with Shiv, but a second chance will all of the Roys. He didn’t need to be adored by his father in law, but approval might be nice.</p>
<p>“A fire I think,” Logan said casually, “I think the East Wing caught fire around then. If memory serves, that’s Marianne’s son but I could be wrong. The painter. I used to be much better at genealogy, when I had more time.”</p>
<p>“Oh,” Tom said. If he had been expecting some kind of explanation for the nagging voice in his head about the painting in the bedroom, he firmly believed he wasn’t going to get one, “How tragic.”</p>
<p>“Must have been fuckin’ terrible for the poor woman. That’s the worst pain a mother could ever feel I’d imagine. Losing a child. I believe she lived for much longer.”</p>
<p>“I’m sure,” Tom said thoughtfully.</p>
<p>“Family is the most important thing to me,” Logan added, as if he felt the need to further explain his statement. Like Tom didn’t agree how awful it must be for a mother to lose her child, “I can’t imagine what the poor woman must have felt. Everything I do is for my children.”</p>
<p>“Of course,” Tom replied, though he found the second half of Logan’s statement to be a bit of bullshit. You never would have been able to tell that family was the most important thing to him sometimes, “It’s so nice that you can look back on your family lineage like this.”</p>
<p>“Be careful with that bible,” Logan said, meaning the conversation— probably the longest and nicest conversation he and Logan had had in ages— was over, “It’s worth more than you are, that’s for sure. And the past is the past. Best not to get too hung up on it.”</p>
<p>“I’ll be careful.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Johannessen, Aksel Waldemar. The Night. 1920</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Tom has a bit of a frightening rainy night</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <a href="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/d/da/Johannessen_-_Die_Nacht_-_ca_1920.jpeg">the night</a>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Next to him, Shiv was asleep. He could tell by her slow breathing, even though she was turned away from him. He wanted very much to go to sleep, but all he had managed to do was lay in the dark for several hours and stare at the ceiling. </p>
<p>Outside, thunder cracked and he could hear the rain pounding on the stone walls. The old manor creaked and moaned in the wind. It wasn’t the noise that was keeping him up— New York City had the habit of being loud at night as well— but something else that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. The quiet was a welcome change, he didn’t think it was that. It was just a <i>feeling</i> of unease somewhere inside him. </p>
<p>Rather than lay in bed and get annoyed at his insomnia, Tom slipped out of bed and reached for his sweater. He pulled on his sneakers, glancing back every so often to make sure he hadn’t disturbed Shiv with his movement, and then padded across the creaky floor and out into the hall. Ideally, he wanted to find the kitchen, get something to eat and maybe some water, and then slip back into bed without getting lost in the thousand or so hallways that seemed to move places between day and night. </p>
<p>The sweater wasn’t doing much about the cold, no matter how much he tugged at it and no matter how much he blew into his hands and tried to warm up. Tom was quickly finding that his insomnia was not worth freezing over. </p>
<p>The lights flickered and Tom froze. The last thing he needed was the power to go out and leave him stranded in some random hallway in the dark. </p>
<p>They dimmed and flickered back to life. He let out a sigh of relief. It was still colder than hell in the hallway, but at least it wasn’t dark. Sure, it was childish to be afraid of the dark, but then again he had <i>Pet Sematary</i> half unfinished on the bedside table and he’d been reading before bed, so maybe he was scaring himself. </p>
<p>Tom shook his head to clear it and composed himself. It was just an old house and a stormy night. Ghosts were just fucking stories. He was acting like a little kid who was too scared to go out into the dark hallway at night. He was not a little kid. He was a grown man. </p>
<p>Trying to laugh at his own stupidity, he continued to the kitchen. The fear and panic he’d felt had mostly melted away, and he made his way downstairs without incident. He poured himself a glass of water and drank half still leaning over the sink. Thunder clapped outside, and he nearly dropped the glass into the sink.</p>
<p>So maybe it hadn’t <i>entirely</i> melted away.</p>
<p>He poured another glass of water and retreated back upstairs, ignoring the long shadows he cast in the moonlight, and the uncomfortable sound of the rain on the stone. Sounds were worse at night, that was all. He’d stick a bookmark in his place, and throw the book into his bag for the rest of the trip.</p>
<p>Shiv would never have to know he was a fucking coward about a little rain and a spooky old house. He was sure he would never hear the end of it, so it was best that he kept his late night wanderings to himself. </p>
<p>Slipping back into the bedroom, Tom kicked off his sneakers and set the glass down on the nightstand. He was going to get back into bed, but the curtains were open. </p>
<p>This he didn’t really like. </p>
<p>He didn’t <i>remember</i> leaving the curtains open. Despite the rain, the moon was still visible, and cast a silvery light into the room, lightening the furniture in an eerie glow. He thought he would have closed them before bed. But that was a simple explanation-- he had forgotten. That was a very reasonable explanation.  </p>
<p>Shaking his head again, he snuck over, careful not to wake up Shiv who hadn’t moved since he’d left and peeked out at the grounds. The rain looked like maybe it was beginning to let up, though the thunder still sounded close by. When he was a child, his mother had taught him to count after the lightning to see how far away the storm was. Tom could remember sitting on the porch in the rain, a desperate Evelyn trying to teach her son the logic behind storms so he wouldn’t be scared of them anymore and would let his parents sleep during them. It had taken several years, if Tom’s memory served. </p>
<p>The lightning flashed, and Tom had half a mind to count just to help himself relax a bit. That had been the plan until he saw something-- someone-- standing on the grounds.</p>
<p>Which was impossible. It was shitty out, and it was the middle of the night. No one was standing on the lawn, probably freezing to death for the hell of it. They’d have to be insane. </p>
<p>He gripped the windowsill and squinted out into the dark. Like that was something he <i>wanted</i> to see. His fingers dug into the freezing wood and he pressed his face against the ice cold glass, waiting for the next flash of light. Jesus, if Shiv woke up and saw him like this he had no idea how he’d explain it. </p>
<p>The thunder seemed to rock the entire house, and when the next flash of lightning struck, there sure was someone standing on the lawn. A person, though they were hard to make out through the rain, and regardless they seemed...well, as much as he hated to admit it they looked more like a ghost than a person. Tom dropped the curtains quickly, went back over to his side of the bed and slid into the now cold covers.</p>
<p>He hoped if he went to sleep now, he’d forget it all by morning.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Dicksee, Sir Frank Bernard. An Offering. 1898</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Shiv has a proposal</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <a href="https://gallerix.org/storeroom/679155050/N/666393129/">an offering</a>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The rain had mostly subsided by the time breakfast rolled around the next morning. Tom wasn’t sure what time he had fallen asleep, but he knew that he <i>had</i> fallen asleep because Shiv came to get him with a cup of coffee and the newspaper. </p>
<p>“You were snoring when I woke up,” she said, sitting down next to him on the edge of the bed, “I figured you didn’t even hear me try to wake you”</p>
<p>“It was kind of a weird night. I think the storm kept me up. It was a bad one.”</p>
<p>It was sort of fuzzy in his brain, the storm and the flickering lights and the image his tired brain projected onto the lawn-- for it was his imagination, made worse by the late hour and the thunder. Nothing else. It was much easier to buy in the early morning sunlight. Things were scarier at night, but now, with the dewy grass and the bright light and the quiet morning, it was easy to believe he had invented it because he’d scared himself stupid.</p>
<p>“A couple of trees fell down last night,” Shiv said, “Maybe you heard them fall. The gardeners are out right now looking for any damage. You’re going to be late for breakfast if you don’t get up.”</p>
<p>Tom nodded and took a long sip of coffee. The warmth was <i>lifesaving</i> in staving off the early morning sun, which was deceiving in making him think it might be warm out. The cold of the building and grounds was bone deep. And Tom had grown up in the cold. It wasn’t like he was from a warm climate. This cold felt <i>different</i> somehow. Like he would never be able to actually warm up. It was embedded in the wood and stone and <i>history</i> of the place.</p>
<p>“Tom?”</p>
<p>“I’m getting up,” he said, but Shiv shook her head. He frowned, “What is it?”</p>
<p>“I had kind of an idea that I think you might like.”</p>
<p>He had a sinking feeling in his gut that he wasn’t going to like what she had to say. He did not, usually, like the next sentence out of her mouth whenever she had an idea she thought he might like. But as of now, he’d yet to gather the courage to tell her. </p>
<p>“What is it?” he asked, hoping that his discomfort wasn’t bleeding into his tone. He sat up further and set the coffee on the bedside table. </p>
<p>“Well,” she tugged on his shirt and smiled almost teasingly. Jesus, whatever it was, she was excited about it, that was for sure, “You know how this is a second honeymoon for us?”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“I’ve been thinking about the things we could have done on our first honeymoon, and didn’t get to, so we could do now. How would you feel if I asked someone else to join us? Just for a night, unless we really like it.”</p>
<p>Tom swallowed. Their open marriage was one thing. He hadn’t been thrilled about it sure, but he had given in because he wouldn't really have to participate in it, if he didn’t want to. But now the whole thing was practically dumped into his lap. There was no way to ignore this, to turn a blind eye and pretend it wasn’t happening, because Shiv was staring at him waiting for an answer. And he was going to have to give her one.</p>
<p>“Is that something that you would like?” He asked.</p>
<p>“I think it would be fun,” she said firmly, “I have a woman in mind. She’s lovely.”</p>
<p>“Alright,” Tom said, hating himself just a little bit for his inability to tell his own fucking wife what he was thinking and feeling, “That’s alright by me.”</p>
<p>“Really?”</p>
<p>He nodded. She leaned forward and kissed the top of his head. Clearly it had been the right answer. </p>
<p>“I’m going to get dressed,” he said, “I’ll meet you downstairs for breakfast?”</p>
<p>“Sure, don’t be long. Dad’s in rare form today.”</p>
<p>“Reagan still?”</p>
<p>Shiv shrugged, “Who fucking knows?”</p>
<p>She smiled once more, and back outside she went. Tom got out of bed and poured the rest of the coffee down the sink. It was suddenly very unappealing. </p>
<p>It was difficult to think about the dynamic he and Shiv had, mostly because he didn’t know anybody he could talk it through with. He was far too embarrassed to bring it up to his mother whenever she called. He wasn’t exactly a fan of discussing his sex life with of Shiv’s brothers. He had very few friends in New York, and even his old college friends, who he maybe spoke to once in a blue moon, were hard to talk to about this. </p>
<p>It was embarrassing. </p>
<p>Shiv had called it modern. She had insisted they’d be living in the twenty-first century-- but really he felt like she was trying to convince him of it all. Maybe if they’d discussed if before their wedding night he would have been more open. </p>
<p>Tom knew that open marriages probably happened all the time. It wasn’t the dark ages anymore, sure, and he tried to be open minded, and he wanted Shiv to be happy, but it hurt, a little bit, to think that maybe he wasn’t enough for her. Shiv seemed to be under the impression that they were on the same page about this, and Tom knew it was his fault. He had let her go around with that idea. Tom had always had trouble standing up for himself, much to his parents dismay. Shiv deserved to be with someone who agreed with her views on monogamy and marriage. But instead she was stuck with Tom, who let the guilt eat him alive, and smiled at her fondly whenever she came back late, never asking too many questions about where she had been and who she had been with.</p>
<p>This was not how he thought their second honeymoon was going to go. </p>
<p>But at least he’d managed to forget about the figure from last night. In fact, it was the farthest thing from his mind as he got dressed and freshened up, and by the time he was in the hallway to go downstairs, it felt, really, like no more than a strange dream.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Caillebotte, Gustave. Paris Street; Rainy Day. 1877</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Shiv and Tom discuss the manor's ghostly secrets during a walk in the nearby town.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <a href="https://www.artic.edu/artworks/20684/paris-street-rainy-day">paris street; rainy day</a>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Shiv agreed to go into the town with him-- a small part of him wondered if he could change her mind somehow. If her agreeing to his request was a sign of the changing tides. </p>
<p>There he went again. Being stupid.</p>
<p>The manor was a half an hour by car or so from the nearest town, a small and old fashioned village with about one main street, and several buildings that probably hadn’t changed much since they were first built. The break in the rain brought out people from their homes, and the few inns that dotted the road. It was Spring now, probably, Tom thought, the beginning of the tourist season, and if the couples with big cameras and children in strollers and maps was any indication, he was right.</p>
<p>“Does this remind you of home?” Shiv asked. </p>
<p>“St. Paul has almost three hundred thousand people in it Shiv,” he said, feeling the need to defend a city he had not been to since he and Shiv were married, “Besides, these are middle class tourist folk. I’ve told you my family is not middle class.”</p>
<p>She laughed. </p>
<p>“So about this woman-” he prompted, hoping now that he’d agreed, and a few hours had passed, she might be willing to offer more.</p>
<p>“No no,” she patted the arm she was holding, “It’s a surprise. Don’t worry about it. I’ve got it all taken care of. What did you want to get while we were here?”</p>
<p>“I just wanted to get out of the house. I’m still fucking spooked from last night I guess.”</p>
<p>“Did you see the ghost?”</p>
<p>Tom nearly tripped over his own two feet and Shiv laughed. </p>
<p>“What ghost?” he asked. </p>
<p>“The ghost,” she said, in a tone that made him think she’d like a flashlight to hold under his chin and a campfire to tell the story by. He also knew she was making fun of him, “Don’t stand in the middle of the street Tom. I’ll fulfill your dumb horror addiction.”</p>
<p>Along the main street they went. Tom made vague notes of the shops and inns, but he was far too interested in the story Shiv was going to share with him, even <i>if</i> she was teasing him. </p>
<p>“You’re making fun of me,” he said anyway, “You’re going to go back and tell your brothers what a fucking coward I am.”</p>
<p>“Of course not honey,” she smiled, “I’ll tell you about the ghost but if it gives you nightmares, that’s not my fault.”</p>
<p>“Just tell me about the ghost,” he said, maybe a little harsher than he meant. He <i>knew</i> that it had just been the wind or just his imagination or something equally explicable, but he also was wondering what ghost Shiv was talking about, a story that she was clearly familiar with.</p>
<p>“It’s just an old story,” she rolled her eyes, and he was glad to see she didn’t actually believe the bullshit, “About some <i>ghost</i> that wanders around the house. There was a fire-”</p>
<p>“Your dad said. I was looking at the family bible the other day.”</p>
<p>“I think maybe he died in the fire but who fucking knows. Maybe that's a different ghost. There’s also a woman I think, that loiters mostly in the upper floors and some kid from the 1700s. In a house this old there’s lots of deaths. But evidently this one just wanders the fucking grounds or whatever. I’m not sure why.”</p>
<p>“Well traditionally ghosts stay because they have unfinished business.”</p>
<p>“What a dork,” Shiv said, though it seemed fond. He thought that she did still love him, just in her own way, “Why do you know that?”</p>
<p>“Just,” he waved vaguely, “Just something I read somewhere.”</p>
<p>“There’s not a ghost Tom.”</p>
<p>“No I know,” he shook his head, “I’m just saying that it’s a <i>thing</i> about ghosts.”</p>
<p>She rolled her eyes, “Well anyway, there’s your ghost lesson about the house. I’m going into this antique store. Do you want to come? I thought we could pick up something for Dad? Try and get him in a less shitty mood. I’m going to blow my brains out if I have to put up with him like this for the rest of the trip.”</p>
<p>Tom nodded, figuring that pacifying Logan was in his best interest as well. Logan was the hardest man in the world to shop for, and Tom mostly thought that he could never really pick out a good gift. But, then again, it was probably more than likely that Logan just didn’t like who was giving him the gift. </p>
<p>But what did you get people who had everything? Even when they were first dating, Tom had trouble picking things out for Shiv. She had more money than him. That was just a fact. He bought her jewelry and perfumes but he knew, somewhere in the back of his head, that she could have done it herself. She had everything she could ever want. </p>
<p>Six months or so after they started dating, Shiv brought Tom home to New York for the first time, introduced him to her family, to the world of the Roys in New York. He hoped he hadn’t come across as a starry eyed farm boy, like fucking Dorothy Gale or some shit, but it was the first time he’d been to that kind of New York before. </p>
<p>It was 1982, he had a beautiful woman on his arm and was <i>invited</i> into the world of Logan Roy and family. He had a good job-- this was early still, but a few months later Shiv would be able to get him a job in the company and at that point she’d already been talking about it. He had drunk expensive champagne and rubbed elbows with celebrities. </p>
<p>But where had it left him? Sad and alone with Shiv fucking around happily and him at home acting like a pathetic sad sack? Unable to even ask his wife if they could please try, just for a little bit, to be together? </p>
<p>Tom did want Shiv to be happy. That was true. He loved her. Deeply, fiercely, and more than he’d ever thought himself capable of. But he didn’t think that he was giving her the kind of love that she wanted. </p>
<p>And at some point, he knew, he had to stop tearing himself apart in order to keep her happy, to try to give her what she wanted. Was this what love was supposed to be? When Shiv had asked, standing there in her wedding dress, about an open marriage, Tom had agreed. They would make it work because they loved each other and that was what you did for the people that you loved. </p>
<p>But he was jealous. And he didn’t know how sustainable this kind of love was. Maybe this whole thing was stupid and pointless. He had hoped that this might rekindle some kind of flame that had been lost, but Shiv was looking to up the game every father. </p>
<p>“You in there Wambsgans?” Shiv said, waving a hand in front of his face, “Did the ghost get you?”</p>
<p>“Haha, very funny. No, I’m here.”</p>
<p>But he wasn’t really.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Wilkie, David. Josephine and the Fortune Teller. 1837</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Tom and Shiv visit the antique shop, and Tom learns a bit about the future.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>yes i snatched this scene out of outlander</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <a href="https://artuk.org/discover/artworks/josephine-and-the-fortune-teller-210855">Josephine and the fortune teller</a>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The little bell on the door jingled as Tom held it open for Shiv. He wanted to point out that this store was not going to be like the expensive antique stores in Manhattan, but he could see it in her face the minute she walked in. The air was musty and the lights weren’t very helpful. Tom thought that the place must have been impossible to navigate without sunlight. He wiped the dust from the door onto his slacks. </p>
<p>“Good morning!” a short woman with an accent called from behind the counter, “Lovely mornin’!”</p>
<p>“Hi,” Shiv said, in the voice she used when she was talking to someone she didn’t want to be. He thought of a hundred comments he could have made about the ugly little stuffy shop and the dumpy woman behind the counter but bit them back, “I’m looking for a gift for my father. Do you have anything relating to military history?”</p>
<p>“Let me get my husband for you, miss,” the woman said, and then shouted into the back room. There was a thump, a crash, and a man came out from the back. This was likely this husband, who motioned for Shiv to follow him to one of the shelves. She shot him a look and he gave her a thumbs up.</p>
<p>“Can I help you with anything?” the woman asked.</p>
<p>“Oh, I’m just following my wife,” he smiled tightly, “It’s a lovely little shop.”</p>
<p>“Been in the family since my grandmother,” the woman said proudly, “You’re sure there’s nothing I can get for ya? Cup of tea maybe?”</p>
<p>He glanced over at Shiv, who already had several options in front of him, and shrugged, “If it’s not too much trouble.”</p>
<p>“Not at all.”</p>
<p>She fussed over the tea for several minutes, called out to her husband and Shiv, both of whom declined, and poured Tom his tea. </p>
<p>“Where are you from?” she asked. </p>
<p>“Minnesota, originally. We live in New York.”</p>
<p>“Oh aye,” she nodded thoughtfully, “A world away from here no doubt. What brings you to our wee neck of the woods?”</p>
<p>“Well it’s like a second honeymoon for us,” he said, “We’re up at the manor.”</p>
<p>“Roy manor?”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>She nodded thoughtfully, “If you save your leaves, I can read them for you.”</p>
<p>He wanted to laugh and tell her that it was ridiculous, knowing that if Shiv had overhead this she <i>would</i> have laughed.</p>
<p>“I’m not sure I believe in all that,” he said, as polite as he could, and took a sip of the tea. It was warm and light. Black tea, he thought. His father was a tea drinker, but once Tom had started drinking coffee in high school and never looked back.</p>
<p>She shrugged, “It’s just a hobby.”</p>
<p>“Sure,” Tom nodded, figuring Shiv would never know. Even if it was bullshit, maybe she’d tell him that everything was going to work out and he could just believe it. Tom maybe needed someone to tell him that everything was going to work out, “She takes forever shopping anywhere.”</p>
<p>“Aye and you’re a good husband for waiting with her,” she said, “Drink up.”</p>
<p>“Oh sorry,” he returned to his now cooling tea. When he finished, he put the cup down. It was polite to humor the woman, even if it was nothing. He glanced back at Shiv, who had vanished into the shelf. He heard the man laugh and figured it was alright, “There you go.”</p>
<p>She turned the cup around several times, and made a few thoughtful noises as she did. </p>
<p>“Am I going to die?” he asked.</p>
<p>She laughed, “It’s not that. It’s a nice cup. Look.”</p>
<p>He leaned forward a bit to see what she was looking at, but all he could see were clumps of wet tea leaves, formless and clearly void of meaning. </p>
<p>“The triangle here,” she pointed with her little finger to the bottom of the cup, “Means something unexpected is coming your way. Hopefully good no?”</p>
<p>“Hopefully.”</p>
<p>“The cross here, see the cross? That means you’ve got to make some kind of sacrifice. But see the bell shape here? That means you’ve got goodness comin’ your way.”</p>
<p>“Seems a bit contradictory,” Tom muttered, surprised he was so interested in something that he <i>knew</i> had to be something you did to entertain children. </p>
<p>“It’s-” she huffed and glared at the cup like it had said something to personally offend her, “Every time I see something, right there’s something to contradict it. I’ve never seen a cup like this before.”</p>
<p>Tom shifted his weight and glanced back again at Shiv, who smiled back. He tried to get her to understand that he wanted her to hurry up, but if he heard right, she was talking about her father’s World War Two medals and Tom knew first hand how long that conversation could go. </p>
<p>“May I?” the woman asked-- Tom thought he probably should have asked for her name, but it was too late now-- and she held out her hand. Tom stared at it until he realized what she was asking of him.</p>
<p>“Oh,” he placed his hand in hers, “Sure.”</p>
<p>Once, a friend of his mother’s had gotten into fortune telling and spent several of their ladies gatherings entertaining the group with her palm reading, so it wasn’t new, but Tom thought this was somehow even <i>bigger</i> bullshit than the tea leaves. </p>
<p>Maybe he was just too tired to be nasty.</p>
<p>“You see this line here?” she said and Tom felt a slight shiver at her touch. He didn’t like this sort of nonsense, not because he believed it, but because he didn’t like hearing bad things from people who <i>did</i> believe it. She was looking at him like he had just been diagnosed with a terminal illness, “It’s your fate line. See it?”</p>
<p>“Yes,” Tom replied, hoping she might be able to sense that he was no longer humoring her as he had been. He was not a child at a carnival. </p>
<p>“Well a forked line is not <i>uncommon</i> you see? It means a dual destiny. But you’ve got… well it’s almost like you’ve got two fate lines. Like you’ve got <i>two</i> fates.”</p>
<p>Curiosity getting the better of him, Tom opened his mouth to reply and ask her elaborate, but as if on cue, he heard Shiv behind him, and pulled his hand away.</p>
<p>“Did you find something?” he asked and Shiv held up a box in answer, “That should pacify him nicely.”</p>
<p>Tom, who was eager to leave, put it on his credit card, and ushered Shiv out of the shop.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Monet, Claude. Impression, Sunrise. 1872</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Shiv's plans are derailed and Tom goes ghost hunting.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Impression,_Sunrise#/media/File:Monet_-_Impression,_Sunrise.jpg">impression, sunrise</a>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Shiv sat on the bed, legs tucked up beneath her, waiting on him. He knew she was waiting for him to say <i>something</i> instead of just standing in the bathroom doorway like a little kid in trouble for something. </p>
<p>“Should I get her?” she prompted, clearly growing more and more irritated with his silence. </p>
<p>“I’m a little tired tonight sweetheart,” Tom said, though this excuse was weak and he knew it, “But here’s what I was thinking. Do you think that maybe I could… watch?”</p>
<p>She smirked, the little crooked smile he’d fallen in love with,  “Oh yeah.”</p>
<p>“Or,” he tried to sound excited, hoping he might be able to convince her to go for it, “Or maybe she could watch us.”</p>
<p>Shiv’s smirk faltered a bit, “I mean I guess that she could?”</p>
<p>“That would be kind of hot right? If we, you know, went at it and she watched.”</p>
<p>“Tom, it sounds like you’re turning our threesome into a twosome.”</p>
<p>“Well-”</p>
<p>“I just thought it would be nice for us. To try and reignite the flame or whatever, but if you don’t want to we don’t have to.”</p>
<p>“Maybe just not tonight.”</p>
<p>She stood up with a quiet huff, “That’s fine. I’ve got to talk to Dad about business anyway. Don’t wait up for me. But I wish you’d told me sooner.”</p>
<p>Tom looked at the floor until he heard the door slam shut. He wasn’t sure what business, exactly, they were going to discuss since it was already after nine, but Shiv had a habit of retreating to her father when she was upset. He wasn’t worried that she would bad mouth him about this. The idea that Shiv talked to her family about their sex life seemed absurd, but he didn’t like thinking she was upset with him over this. </p>
<p>Maybe he should have just agreed. </p>
<p>Instead of waiting around the room for her to get back, probably for her to get into bed and turn her back to him-- that was the worst, sleeping in bed with someone but still feeling alone. But just <i>existing</i> near the Roys, never quite with them was isolating in itself. </p>
<p>He grabbed a jacket, pulled on his boots and went to wander. He didn’t like the idea of sitting here alone like some fucking Victorian woman, waiting for her husband to return, but he also didn’t like the idea of accidentally running into Kendall or Roman or, God forbid, whatever woman Shiv had gotten to agree to fucking. Especially since she’d probably know him, but he wouldn’t know her. </p>
<p>Ideally, Tom thought as he glanced both ways down the empty hallways, in the morning, he and Shiv could talk it over and he could tell her his reservations. Ideally she would understand and they could kiss and make up.</p>
<p><i>Ideally</i> Tom would tell Shiv he thought the fact that she told him on their <i>wedding night</i> that she wanted an open marriage was probably the worst thing she’d ever said to him, and he was miserable most of the time, but this seemed the least likely of all of these options to ever happen. </p>
<p>It felt kind of good, in a terrible, vengeful, shitty way, that Shiv might return to an empty room.</p>
<p>Jesus Christ, was he really this awful? </p>
<p>Since the other night he’d wandered towards the kitchens, he decided to wander up this time towards the upper floors. Maybe he’d go see the East Wing that Logan said had caught fire. If the ghost had died in the fire, it would make sense that he’d loiter upstairs, maybe rattling chains and making paintings fall of the wall and throw vases at his head like a fucking Scooby Doo villain. </p>
<p>He climbed the creaky stairs and poked his head into the hallway. As far as he was aware, all of the Roys rooms, his own included, were on the lower floors, and mostly in the West Wing of the manor. If he didn’t want to run into anybody, this was the place to do it. </p>
<p>The hallway was carpeted in an ugly maroon color, the walls decorated with tapestries and paintings. Flower vases dotted the side tables. He tried the first door he came across, pushing it open only to be disappointed in the fact that it was just a bathroom. What, exactly, he was expecting was unclear. This wasn’t a Gothic manor from a Bronte novel, it was just an old house in the Highlands. </p>
<p>And did he have any business nosing around? Probably not. But no one was ever going to know, and it wasn’t like he was causing any harm. Wasn’t it his family manor now too? Now that he and Shiv were husband and wife?</p>
<p>He laughed a bit, at the old Tom, who thought he might be allowed to be a Roy when he married into the family.</p>
<p>How fucking <i>naive</i> he’d been. </p>
<p>It sounded like maybe the rain had started up again, but there were no windows in this hallway to look. He made sure to shut the bathroom door and continued down the hallway. He paused briefly to examine a painting on the wall. A Monet, he thought. Definitely impressionist. Probably genuine, whoever it was. God knew the Roys could afford it. He leaned forward to take a closer look. No one was here to tease him about his interest here.</p>
<p>He wanted to take it off the wall and see if anything was on the back, mostly because he couldn’t find a signature in the dim light. Maybe he could go get a flashlight and look closer.</p>
<p>A door slammed down the hallway. Tom whipped his head around, but the hallway was still deserted. If someone had snuck past him into a room, he was still sure he’d have heard them. He shifted his weight a bit, and sure enough, the floor squeaked with every movement. No, if someone had been down the hall he would have heard them. </p>
<p>Figuring this was exactly what got Jack Torrence into trouble, Tom went hunting in the direction of the slam.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Van Gogh, Vincent. The Bedroom. 1888</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Tom continues his investigation.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <a href="https://www.vangoghmuseum.nl/en/collection/s0047V1962">the bedroom</a>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>At first, he tried to guess which door had slammed, like Sherlock Holmes or something, investigating disruptions in the dust on the floor, but he felt a little bit like an idiot. Surely he could never tell Shiv about this. She would never let him live it down if she found out he’d basically been <i>ghost hunting.</i> He could just <i>hear</i> Roman’s jeering, knowing full well Shiv would not waste the opportunity to tease him with her brothers.</p>
<p>But eventually he didn’t need to solve the case because something inside one of the rooms sounded like it fell, and Tom pushed the door open. </p>
<p>Nothing seemed out of place. The dust hung in the air, the room was still and quiet. It looked as if Tom was the first person to disturb it in several years. Maybe longer than that. A bed sat against the wall, a desk and chair on the opposite wall. The furniture was drab and dingy, though it did look like it had been occupied at one point. A few books, yellowed by time were stacked on the desk and the wardrobe hung open. Tom didn’t know what had fallen on the floor to make the crash, but he was pretty certain it had come from this room. </p>
<p>He’d been keeping an eye out for evidence of a fire ever since he made his way up here, but it was more than likely that things had been replaced in the century since it happened. He went over to the window and pulled open the curtains, nearly choking on the dust as he did. Waving the cloud away, he confirmed that it was, in fact, raining again. Thinking fresh air might help him not choke to death, he pried the window open, letting in a small blast of cool, rainy air. It was too musty in the room to stay otherwise. And he had evidently spooked himself pretty badly in the hallway, so he took a moment to breathe in the cool air and calm down. </p>
<p>He hadn’t brought a flashlight with him-- of <i>course</i> he hadn’t--  and so Tom had to fiddle with the lanturn on the desk until it sparked to life. It felt a bit invasive going through what was obviously a bedroom but it was more than likely that its occupant was not around to complain anymore. Tom figured if he was dead, he probably wouldn’t mind anyone going through his things. There wasn’t much he could do about it. </p>
<p>Unless, he glanced around, it belonged to a ghost. </p>
<p>But that was stupid. He shook his head and laughed at himself as he pulled open a drawer. It was mostly empty save for a dry and cracked pot of ink, a bound leather journal and a few letters and their envelopes. He flipped through them, the first one was dated 1860, which made him pause. He stole a few more glances, and the dates went up through the 1860s. Strange, but not inherently frightening. </p>
<p>It <i>shouldn’t</i> have been anyway. It was his own fault for nosing around the house looking for things. He’d taken the painting in the bedroom off the wall. He’d flipped through the family bible. It was just a coincidence and nothing more.</p>
<p>But it confirmed his theory. Whoever this bedroom belonged to was dead and buried and probably would not mind his snooping. It was much easier to deal with the generations of Roys who were already dead, compared to his likely furious wife and her teasing brothers and her semi-tyrant father.</p>
<p>The year was probably a coincidence. </p>
<p>Maybe the house was only occupied <i>sometimes</i> and therefore most of the dated things would be only in a handful of years. But the fact that the letter was addressed to Tom-- probably the same Tom whose painting was in the bedroom, given the date on both things, didn’t <i>feel</i> like a coincidence. It felt like he was <i>supposed</i> to find this room. Which, of course, he was not. Tom barely believed in God, and certainly did not believe in signs from the universe or hippie bullshit like that. </p>
<p>The wardrobe door slammed shut, and all of the letters fell out of his hands, scattering onto the floor. He didn’t bother to pick them up, going over to the wardrobe to pull it back open, half expecting a ghost to come darting out of it as he did. </p>
<p>But there was nothing but old clothes hung up. He touched the fabric gently. They were dated, sure, like this room had been abandoned in 1860, shut up and never touched again. And maybe it had. Tom felt suddenly like this room belonged to a dead man-- for they <i>were</i> men’s clothing, and locked up after he’d died. He had no <i>evidence</i> to support that, except for the fact that the room was scaring the shit out of him and it was getting colder. </p>
<p>He moved some hangers over to examine the clothes. He knew little about historical fashion, but they seemed to be good quality. And if they belonged to a Roy, even an old dead one, they probably <i>were.</i></p>
<p>“If you are still here,” Tom said, feeling more than just a little silly talking out loud to himself like there really was a ghost there to hear him and he wasn’t just a sad man talking to an empty room, “I don’t mean to bother you or your things. I promise I’ll leave you be.”</p>
<p>The window slammed shut and that was more than enough of an answer for Tom.</p>
<p>All the ideas he’d had about being absent when Shiv returned, about really sticking it to her were gone. He did not like standing in what felt a bit like a shrine. He closed the wardrobe, tossed the letters back into the drawer without so much as one more glance, and hurried out of the room. </p>
<p>As he walked back, he thought it over. He didn’t get the impression that the ghost was <i>violent.</i> He did get the impression that he was insane for even entertaining this thought, but here he was. The ghost seemed… well just sort of there. It hadn’t chucked a book at his head or rattled chains over his bed or pushed him down the stairs. It just seemed to be hanging around him. Maybe it had attached itself to him because he was pathetic and depressing and it realized he didn’t have any live people who liked him. </p>
<p>“Is that what it is?” Tom asked the empty hallway. He’d made his wife mad, ran off to hide, and was talking to himself in an empty hallway. Jesus Christ, “You think <i>I’m</i> depressing and you’re dead.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Rossetti, Dante Gabriel. Marigolds. 1873</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Tom and Shiv make an attempt.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <a href="http://www.rossettiarchive.org/docs/s235.rap.html">marigolds</a>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Shiv was cold the next morning. They got dressed in silence, and ate breakfast in silence. Tom thought that the other Roys were chiller than usual, but that could have been his imagination.</p>
<p>“Can we talk about this?” he asked, grabbing her elbow in the kitchen to try and get her to listen, “Just the two of us? Out in the garden or something?”</p>
<p>She glared at him, “Sure. Sure we can.”</p>
<p>At their rehearsal dinner, when things had still been mostly alright, Tom had told Shiv all about the cruise documents. It was probably bad that he never thought about the felony he’d been involved in. Maybe together, he and Shiv could worm their way under Logan’s skin somehow, he thought as they piled on jackets to go outside. Maybe if they had some kind of business deal together, if Tom could help Shiv professionally, she might find him useful again. </p>
<p>But he didn’t like bringing up the cruises when Shiv and Logan were getting along, because Tom knew, and maybe finally admitted it for the first time as they found a bench in the garden to sit on, that Shiv would always choose her father over him. The idea of suggesting it, in some desperate attempt to make himself useful to her again, died before it even left his mouth.</p>
<p>“If you didn’t want to do that Tom, you could have told me. You could have just manned up and told me. That’s all.”</p>
<p>He frowned, “I know.”</p>
<p>“What are you thinking about?” she asked.</p>
<p>“Lots of things,” he replied, squinting in the early morning light. The fountain water must be freezing, he thought strangely. The grass was wet, and the air was  mostly still, save for the occasional breeze. Tom felt distinctly separate from his body, “I don’t think I want what you want Shiv. You asked me to man up so here I am.”</p>
<p>“What are you talking about?”</p>
<p>“I don’t want to have threesomes or whatever all that shit is. I don’t want that. I just want to be a regular husband and wife. Do you know <i>bad</i> I feel, wherever you come home late or go away for the weekend?”</p>
<p>“What are you-”</p>
<p>“You said you wanted to have an open marriage on our <i>wedding night</i> Shiv.”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry.”</p>
<p>He shrugged,  mostly because she didn’t sound very sorry, “I’ve been trying, you know? To make you happy, to do what you want but when I think about it really, most of the time I’m pretty unhappy.”</p>
<p>“I love you.”</p>
<p>“Uh huh,” he nodded, “Sure. I thought this was going to be our second honeymoon. You don’t usually invite a third party to your honeymoon, Shiv.”</p>
<p>She didn’t respond. He knew that he had hurt her feelings-- he could see it in her face, and she stared ahead while he looked down at his hands in his lap. He twisted his wedding band around, thinking about marriage and love and everything in between. </p>
<p>“What do you want from me?” Shiv finally asked. </p>
<p>“I don’t know,” he replied, finding that it was the truth. He <i>didn’t</i> know, “I just thought I should <i>man up</i> and tell you.”</p>
<p>“We could try counselling,” Shiv said, “When we get back to the States. I mean, Rome and I both did the therapy thing and even though we tried it as a family and it was a shitshow maybe you and I-”</p>
<p>“I’d be willing to do that,” he replied, surprised she’d suggested it and further surprised that he hadn’t come up with the idea on his own-- not that he’d have had the guts to ask, “I think that it could be good for us.”</p>
<p>“I’ll have it set up for the week we get back,” she stood up but Tom remained seated, “Sounds good?”</p>
<p>“Uh huh.”</p>
<p>She nodded, though he still thought she looked displeased, “I’m cold. I’m going inside.”</p>
<p>“Alright. I’ll be in later. The fresh air is nice.”</p>
<p>“Whatever, suit yourself.”</p>
<p>She jammed her hands into her pockets and turned on her heel. He watched her walk back to the house, up the small hill until she was no longer visible. Objectively, it could have gone worse. She could have asked him for a divorce then and there. He put his elbows on his knees, and pressed his palms into his eyes. The cold was absolutely biting, and he wanted to go back inside too, but he needed to give Shiv more time to get inside. The last thing he wanted was to awkwardly walk inside with Shiv.</p>
<p>The bench creaked a little bit and for one stupid moment he thought that Shiv had come back. But when he turned there was no one there. Just the wind again probably and an optimism he didn’t know he still had. </p>
<p>“Yeah just my fucking luck,” he rolled his eyes, “My wife hates me, the house is fucking haunted, and I’m going insane.”</p>
<p>The bench creaked again. Tom tested his theory, to see if it sounded the same when he shifted his weight. To compare the sounds. To see if it could have been the wind.</p>
<p>No, the creak was most assuredly someone sitting there. </p>
<p>“Sorry you had to see that,” Tom said, thinking that it was more than possible that he was having some kind of nervous breakdown, “God am I talking to my fucking self? Holy shit. Am I going insane? Is this what going insane feels like?”</p>
<p>The wind blew again. Tom zipped his jacket all the way up. </p>
<p>“Were you someone super important?” Tom said, “Should I get a Ouija board maybe? Sit here like fucking Sabrina the Teenage Witch? What the fuck am I doing. This is stupid.”</p>
<p>He stood up and wiped his palms on his jeans. He hadn’t started crying-- clearly he’d been successful at holding in his tears-- and he took a deep breath of the cold air. </p>
<p>“Thanks for listening I guess,” Tom said, “Maybe you don’t get cold but I sure do.”</p>
<p>He had the distinct impression that whoever or <i>whatever</i> was sitting on the bench next to him also stood up too. Mostly, he <i>knew</i> he was imagining things. Trying to cope with his crumbling marriage, still worked up from the bedroom last night. That or he was insane. It was a toss up at this point really. </p>
<p>The wind picked up once more and something-- a flower, it looked like-- blew across the dirt path and landed at Tom’s feet. He bent down to pick it up, hands shaking only slightly. </p>
<p>It was a Marigold. Tom gently picked it up, afraid it might crumble in his hands. He thought he’d seen some in the garden the other day but hadn’t had the chance to go look at them closer.</p>
<p>“Marigolds are my favorite flowers,” he said, “Have you seen Dante Rossetti’s painting. 1873 or 74 I think. One of the first paintings I studied in school. I wrote a paper on it. Then bought myself a bouquet of them when I got an A. Wasn’t that fucking cheesey of me? I hadn’t met Shiv yet, otherwise I’d have bought them for her I guess.”</p>
<p>He tucked the flower into his pocket, careful not to damage the petals. He’d press it in his book so Shiv wouldn’t see and ask questions he wasn’t exactly sure he would be able to answer. </p>
<p>“Thanks,” he said quietly.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Grun, Jules-Alexandre. The End of Dinner. 1913</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Tom plays punching bag at the family dinner.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Gr%C3%BCn_-_The_End_of_Dinner.jpg">the end of dinner</a>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He couldn’t be certain, but he had a feeling that the Roys knew something was wrong. That they were distinctly… off around him. When he pulled himself together for dinner that night-- they were all supposed to eat the table, Logan’s orders-- he sat next to Shiv and drank his wine and listened to Logan bitch about the Democrats and the Communists and Reagan and every fucking thing in between. Connor has lots to say about politics, and though usually he couldn’t stand when Connor was speaking, it was a nice neutral topic of conversation for the dinner table.</p>
<p>“I told Tom about the ghost,” Shiv said suddenly and Tom knew she was only saying it because teasing Tom seemed to be a hobby the entire Roy family shared, “I think he believed it.”</p>
<p>“Yeah right,” Tom rolled his eyes, “No, I didn’t believe in the ghosts.”</p>
<p>“Oh yeah Wambsgans?” Roman said, “Surely they got fucking farm ghosts out in bum-fuck Missouri?”</p>
<p>“St. Paul. Minnesota,” Tom muttered, “Yeah I don’t- I don’t know. I’m sure they do.”</p>
<p>“He got scared when we went to see <i>Cujo,</i>” Shiv said, “But you’re a coward too Rome, you used to be scared of the ghost.”</p>
<p>“Yeah when I was seven Shiv,” Roman laughed, “Not fucking, forty five.”</p>
<p>“I’m forty three,” Tom muttered, and he was beginning to think that he should have just feigned a headache and went upstairs to eat dinner alone. How much of a glutton for punishment was he, really? </p>
<p>“Leave the poor fucker alone,” Logan said, “We’re eating dinner you two, were you fuckin’ raised in a barn?”</p>
<p>Tom poked at his fish, but wasn’t very hungry. He kept thinking about the pile of letters in the upstairs bedroom, and Shiv’s face when he’d told her no, and the Marigold flower on the dirty, and the painting in the bedroom, and the time when he was eight and his parents took him to his favorite art gallery for the first time, and his wedding night with Shiv, and the way he thought Logan despised him and a million other things at one time. How much room did he have in his brain when all was said and done? </p>
<p>“Oh come on we’re just joking Tom-” Shiv looked at him, “Tom knows we’re only joking.”</p>
<p>“Of course,” he smiled tightly, “It’s fine Logan. I know it’s a joke.”</p>
<p>He felt like he was ten, and in the principal’s office because some children had pushed him around. <i>Tom knows they were just being children,</i> the principal had told his worried mother,<i> boys will be roys. Tom knows that.</i></p>
<p>“Tom can’t help it if he’s a fucking pansy,” Logan said, laughing at his own joke. </p>
<p>“I’m going to bed,” Tom said, pushing his plate away, “Would you excuse me? I feel a migraine coming on.”</p>
<p>“Oh Tom don’t be a fucking kid, we’re just kidding,” Shiv put a hand out to stop him, “We’ll stop.”</p>
<p>He thought she was holding back a giggle. </p>
<p>“Yeah sit Tom,” Roman said, earning a glare from both Willa and Kendall, “We’ll behave right? No more fuckin’ jokes at your expense.”</p>
<p>Shiv held onto his sleeve and Tom stared at Roman waiting for the other shoe to drop. He wondered how much everybody at the table knew about their marriage problems. Tom felt, very much, like every single person there could read every thought that crossed his brain. </p>
<p>“Alright just one more,” Roman laughed.</p>
<p>“Rome-” Kendall tried, “Come on man, fucking, leave him be alright?”</p>
<p>“Yeah he’s been playing <i>Ghostbusters</i> every night he must be tired.”</p>
<p>Shiv laughed, “He’s the little annoying squirrely guy with the glasses. You know who I mean-”</p>
<p>“Hey Shiv?” Tom said, and she looked up, “Fuck off.”</p>
<p>He pulled out of her grip, and stalked away. He heard Logan shouting after him and heard Shiv saying it was fine, that he just needed to rest because he didn’t feel well. <i>Now</i> she was defending him. Fucking figured. </p>
<p>Not sure, exactly, where he was going, Tom went up to the bedroom and picked up a flashlight, and got dressed to go out. It wasn’t quite dark yet, but the sun was rapidly setting. He needed space. The grounds were well kept. It wasn’t like he was going hiking in untamed woods. He’d wander the grounds for a bit, stay in sight of the house, and it’d be fine. </p>
<p>The bedroom door creaked open and Tom paused halfway through pulling on a sweater to look up.</p>
<p>“Don’t you have to be invited in,” Tom muttered. Thank God Shiv wasn’t here to see him talking to himself. The Roys, evidently, already though he was a tin-foil hat certified nut job already, “Or is that just fucking vampires?”</p>
<p>There wasn’t any answer. Tom wasn’t sure why he thought there would be. </p>
<p>“I’m getting some fresh air,” he said, zipping up his last layer, “This place is fucking suffocating me. I feel like I’m trapped under a fucking building or something. Guess you get it. You can never leave. Least I can have my own free will or whatever.”</p>
<p>He stalked to the doorway, ignoring a patch of cold and turned around.</p>
<p>“Sorry,” Tom said, “It’s kind of shitty to be a dick to someone that’s already dead.”</p>
<p>He ran into Shiv in the hall who stopped him from going any further.</p>
<p>“I’m fine,” he said, trying not to get distracted from his task of getting out of the house before he went even crazier, “I just want to get some fresh air. That was a little… that was a little much, Shiv.”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry,” she said softly. </p>
<p>“It’s fine. It is. I just need some fresh air. I’m sorry too.”</p>
<p>“You sure you’re alright? I mean, I can go with you?”</p>
<p>He shook his head, “No offense, Shiv, but I need a break from your family right now. I’ll be back before dark. I just need to think. I don’t want another argument with you tonight.”</p>
<p>They stood there for a moment or two in silence. </p>
<p>“Alright,” she stood on her toes and kissed his cheek, “Be safe out there.”</p>
<p>“I will,” he paused long enough to kiss her back.</p>
<p>She let him go. He knew that she would. Maybe she wanted the marriage to work too, in her own Shiv way. The Roys were all a puzzle, in their own way, not quite the same as any person Tom had ever known. It was nice to <i>think</i> that Shiv wanted to stay married like he did, and not because she didn’t want the scandal, not because she wanted to stick it to her mother who probably had money on them getting a divorce. Not because she wanted to just <i>be</i> with someone, anybody, who would offer a sympathetic ear, who would be her fucking cheerleader. </p>
<p>He smiled tightly, “See you in a bit.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Waterhouse, John William. Pandora. 1896</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Tom falls down a rabbit hole.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pandora_(painting)#/media/File:Pandora_-_John_William_Waterhouse.jpg">pandora</a>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Tom had not a single clue where he was walking. Whatever fucking ghost or whatever it was that was loitering around was noticeably absent. He was alone. That he was confident in. </p>
<p>It was a lovely twilight out. The sky looked like it was on fire, all yellows and reds and oranges. He paused a bit on the path to look at it, hands on his hips. </p>
<p>It would make a beautiful painting. </p>
<p>The gardens had already been mostly explored, so he turned left instead of right, and went down to the lake. The grass needed to be cut, he thought, as he carefully trudged down the hill. Down he went, to the large lake on the Roy property. It was probably good for fishing, when it wasn’t so fucking cold out. This would be a good spot to take a breather. He could see the house just over the hill, so he wouldn’t get lost, even if dark came sooner than he thought it would, but it was peaceful with the wind on the water, and the sun setting over the horizon. </p>
<p>He dropped down onto the grass, which was cold and a little wet, but he found he didn’t really mind. He pulled his legs up and looked out over the water. He sort of wished he was back in New York and sort of wished he was in St. Paul or at least anywhere that wasn’t here.</p>
<p>It was definitely pathetic, sitting here like this, alone, on the wet grass. </p>
<p>He was thinking this, when the noise started. Sort of like a buzzing sound. At first he thought there was a bug around him, but when he stood, and glanced back towards the forest, he thought it was coming from there. </p>
<p>Flipping on the flashlight, he shined it over towards the tree line, but there was nothing in the trees. </p>
<p>It was probably not a good idea, but he made his way towards the trees, where the buzzing was growing louder. Maybe <i>this</i> was what got Jack Torrence in trouble. </p>
<p>He figured he’d just stay in the tree line. No way was he dumb enough to wander into the fucking dark forest in an unfamiliar place with the sun going down. Maybe he wanted out but he wasn’t ready to meet a fucking animal and get his face clawed off. </p>
<p>The buzzing was louder the closer he got to the trees. It was incessant, like a fly in the summer who wouldn’t leave no matter how many times you swatted it. Or a wasp nest. God, he hoped it wasn’t that. </p>
<p>It was <i>almost</i> hypnotic, that sound, and he ended up farther into the trees than he should have gone. When he glanced back, the lake was hardly visible now, and he knew if he went any farther, the odds of him getting lost in the rapidly approaching darkness were growing. But that didn’t matter because the source of the buzzing was right in front of him.</p>
<p>There was a small clearing in the trees, and Tom shined the light over towards it to help illuminate the scene. It wasn’t dark out yet-- he wasn’t yet making bad on his promise to Shiv-- but the trees were blocking out a good portion of the light. </p>
<p>The buzzing-- as ridiculous as it all seemed-- was coming from a large stone pressed against a tree. Tom walked around it, twice, trying to find out where the sound was coming from, until he realized it was from the stone itself. That was probably not good, since he was fairly certain that rocks weren’t supposed to make noises. </p>
<p>But what was the harm right? It was just a rock and a forest and there was nothing dangerous about it at all. So Tom stood in front of it, reached out a hand, and when his hand touched the cold stone, he felt like someone had pushed him from a very high precipice and he was free falling. Tom had never been skydiving, or anything remotely like that. In fact, he didn’t really even like heights that much, be he imagined, with whatever coherent thought he had, that it probably felt a bit like this. Like when you reach the very top of a roller coaster, right before all that momentum shoots you downwards and you feel like your stomach might drop all the way out of your body and the air whips past you so quickly it feels like it’ll leave behind scrapes. </p>
<p>Despite the fact that Tom knew he had not, actually, be in the air, it still felt like he hit the ground-- <i>hard.</i> He was lying face up, looking at the trees. The grass was cold on his back, despite his three layers of clothing, and he drew several deep breaths before even attempting to push himself off the ground.</p>
<p>He must have tripped, that was all. Tom got up and, despite a bit of a headache and a little soreness, he felt fine. There had to be a hidden trunk or stone buried in the ground, and when Tom took a step forward, he missed it, tripped and fell. That was all. He would quit dicking around in the forest, and trudge back up to the house. He was being stupid anyway, hiding out here like a bratty teenager who didn’t want to participate in the family dinner. </p>
<p>So that’s what he did. Using the sliver of lake he could see as a guide, he made his way back out through the trees, and onto the grass. Even now, he was already thinking about the conversation he and Shiv would have. Maybe he’d tell her that one of the things he needed was for her to tell her father and brothers to lay off. It couldn’t hurt to ask right? </p>
<p>The sun was still lingering on the horizon, casting a fiery glow across the lake. This would be a beautiful painting, really. Tom hadn’t ever been very good at painting himself, but he wondered, seemingly out of nowhere, if Marianne the painter had ever dragged her easel and palette down here to paint the sight. It seemed like a natural desire for an artist. </p>
<p>“Sir?” someone called, a woman’s voice. He stupidly thought it was Shiv, though she wouldn’t have called him “sir” and he turned at the sound.</p>
<p>There were two people, a man and a woman. The man was older, with white hair and a white beard, but the woman was younger. The age difference, Tom thought, though he was still several feet away, could have made them father and daughter, but there was no way to be certain.</p>
<p>“Are you alright?” the woman continued. Her accent wasn’t Scottish. He might have guessed she was American, but it wasn’t her accent that caught his attention. It was her dress. It looked like something out of a museum, or a period movie. The dress had a high collar and was a deep green. Her hair was piled on top of her head, and the man carried a cane in one hand, and the other arm was held by the woman. He couldn’t judge their clothes, but he thought they looked like they belonged in the Civil War or something. </p>
<p>“I’m alright,” Tom said, though they were both coming over now. The woman seemed concerned, but the man was eyeing him suspiciously. Tom rubbed absentmindedly at the back of his head, “I think I must have tripped and hit my head.”</p>
<p>“Oh dear,” she said. Now that she was closer, he could see that her clothes were fine, and a large ruby brooch was pinned to her coat. It looked real, “You’re dressed very odd. What were you doing, wandering about at this time of night?”</p>
<p>“I must have gotten lost,” Tom said, thinking he’d just somehow ended up on someone else’s property, and maybe they were filming a movie, or throwing some kind of party. That would explain the clothes, but Tom was <i>certain</i> that he hadn’t gone that far into the forest, “While I was out walking.”</p>
<p>“You must let us take you back up to the manor,” she said, “If you’ve hit your head you ought to lie down a bit.”</p>
<p>She was already pulling him towards the man, fretting as she did. She reminded him a bit of his own mother. </p>
<p>“What’s your name?” she asked.</p>
<p>“Tom,” he replied. She was practically yanking him up the hill, “Tom Wambsgans.”</p>
<p>“My name is Marianne Roy, and this is my father Ewan.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Millais, John Everett. The Black Brunswicker. 1860</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Realization sets in for Tom.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Black_Brunswicker#/media/File:John_Everett_Millais_The_Black_Brunswicker.jpg">the black brunswicker</a>
</p>
<p>i picked this painting almost exclusively bc it was painted in 1860 and I think it's pretty but it's apparently about the Napoleonic Wars (according to wikipedia, the black brunswickers were a german volunteer corp during the waterloo campaign) and I wanted to give something to connor who doesn't physically appear in this (but was interested in politics from a young age)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There was no real comparison to the feeling Tom had in his stomach, no real comparison for the way his heart was pounding, and the way he was sure he’d cracked and lost all touch from reality. That could not have been Marianne Roy, because Marianne Roy was alive in the 1860s. She would be dead by now but here she was, lightly touching his arm and looking at him with a furrowed brow.</p>
<p>“We’ll get you set up in a room,” she said as they marched towards the house. It was much darker by now, and the house loomed ahead. There weren’t lights shining, though it looked like there were candles in some of the windows, “And I’ll have some tea sent up. Do you have any family around?”</p>
<p>“I’m not hurt. I’m fine.”</p>
<p>“Nonsense,” Marianne said.</p>
<p>“Forgive me ma’am,” Tom began, “I guess I am a little mixed up. Do you think you could tell me the date? Just so I can tell if I actually have a concussion?”</p>
<p>She frowned up at him-- he had a foot on her or so-- but nodded, “It’s the twenty-eighth of May.”</p>
<p>“What year?”</p>
<p>“You must have really hit your head,” she said fondly, “1860 dear.”</p>
<p>“Oh,” Tom said and every other thought died on his tongue, “Alright.”</p>
<p>Whatever he’d been thinking about a movie, or a party suddenly seemed foolish. Which was ridiculous, because his other option was that he’d <i>actually</i> somehow been sent back in time to 1860, and this was <i>really</i> Marianne Roy, and Tom was now living some kind of time travel fantasy in his real life. </p>
<p>But if ghosts were real-- and now it seemed even less insane-- why <i>not</i> time travel. He pinched his thigh through his jeans, and it sure wasn’t a dream. </p>
<p>They brought him inside, into the familiar front hall. It was the same as Tom remembered, though the chandelier above did not have electric lights. </p>
<p>“Emma!” Marianne called and a woman in what Tom wanted to call a maid costume, but thought it was more than likely her actual uniform, assuming he was not having a strange hallucination, “Would you pop down to the kitchens and get our guest a nice hot cup of tea? It’s quite cold out. And then would you bring it up to the room on the third floor? The guest’s bedroom?”</p>
<p>“Of course,” she replied, dropping into a tiny curtsey/ Well Tom had been right about one thing. They had money. Which made sense, since they were Roys and the Roys had always had money. Ewan continued to eye him. Tom thought that the Roy genes were strong, because he was sure he’d seen that look on Logan’s face before.</p>
<p>“You follow me Mr. Wambsgans,” Marianne said and she lifted her skirt up enough so she wouldn't trip going up the stairs, and though Tom did know his was around the manor, he stuck close by, “What strange dress you have on. Is that the latest fashion in America?”</p>
<p>“Uh,” Tom looked down at his tan sweater and jeans, “Something like that. Are you from America?”</p>
<p>“Canada,” Marianne replied, “Though my father was born here. We live here most of the time now with the family. My son comes and goes.”</p>
<p>Tom remembered, just then, the name in the bible and the conversation in the library.</p>
<p>“I’ve cousins and all as well as their children who come and go too. My aunt had a few children before she died,” she continued. He was thankful her back was to him, because he knew his feeling much have shown on his face, the terrible, gnawing guilt at the fact that this woman, who was standing right in front of him, was going to lose her son in less than a year and she didn’t know it and he <i>did,</i> “It’s never empty here.”</p>
<p>“I don’t want to impose on your hospitality,” Tom said as they made it to the third floor hallway. It was mostly lit, not, of course, by electricity, but by lanterns on the walls, “I’ll leave in the morning.”</p>
<p>“Nonsense!” she finally turned to face him, “It’s not an imposition. Besides, you seem very lost.”</p>
<p>“Ma’am, that’s an understatement.”</p>
<p>She frowned and looked him over, taking in his boots and the dirt on his clothes and, her eyes settled on his left hand, his wedding ring. </p>
<p>“Where’s your wife?” she asked, “I do hope we didn’t leave her outdoors?”</p>
<p>“She’s uh,” Tom felt, honest to God, like he was about to cry, “Uh, well, she’s gone.”</p>
<p>And it was true. Shiv was a hundred and twenty fucking five years away. What would it mean if he didn’t come home? He wanted to work on their marriage but they <i>had</i> just fought. Would she think that he had walked into the lake? Run off? What would she say if he didn’t come back? The idea of it made him want to sob.</p>
<p>“Oh dear me,” Marianne hurried over and put a light hand on his arm, “A windower? No wonder you look so lost.”</p>
<p>“I guess in a way,” Tom looked down at his hand and twisted his wedding band. </p>
<p>“You poor thing,” she frowned, “Not to worry alright? You stay here for the night at least, and in the morning perhaps we can find where you belong. Is that acceptable?”</p>
<p>“Sure,” Tom said. He was quickly realizing that he was, in fact, deeply fucked. He was suddenly very tired, his headache had not gone away, and he was, apparently, in 18-fucking-60. He would have probably let Marianne take him out back and shoot him at this point. All sort of rational and voluntary thought had been zapped from his brain. He followed her like a zombie, and when she opened the door to the bedroom-- the same fucking one he and Shiv were sleeping in a hundred yeras from now. Maybe he would laugh about it otherwise, but right now, nothing was funny. </p>
<p>Marianne hurried to the window and pulled open the curtains. </p>
<p>Tom stood awkwardly. </p>
<p>“I’m sure my father has something you can wear,” she said, kneeling down in front of the fireplace, “It’s freezing in here. I promise I don’t usually light the fires myself, but I don’t want to wait.”</p>
<p>He sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled off his jacket. There was a slight ringing in his ears, marched only but how loudly his heart was pounding. </p>
<p>“There we go,” she said, popping back up to come over to him, “It’ll warm up here in a bit.</p>
<p>There was a polite knock on the doorway, and they both looked over. Emma, the maid, came over with a teacup on a saucer, handed it off to Marianne and took a step back. Even in his time-- as preposterous as the entire thing sounded-- the Roys had staff to deliver food and clean their houses but this felt entirely different. </p>
<p>“I’ll go and get the clothes from my father Emma, you go on to bed,” Marianne said, and Emma curtsied out of the room. Tom toko a sip of the tea, despite the fact that it was a little too hot, “How are you feeling Mr. Wambsgans?”</p>
<p>“Fine,” he replied, though <i>that</i> was a lie. He had never been less fine than he was right now, “Thank you for the tea.”</p>
<p>“Of course. You get some rest. You’ll feel better in the morning.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. von Lenbach, Franz. Self Portrait with Daughter Marion. 1894</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Tom talks with Ewan, and gets a terrible setback.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <a href="https://pixels.com/featured/self-portrait-with-daughter-marion-franz-von-lenbach.html">self portrait</a>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Tom woke up slowly. He took a brief glance around the room, and realized it had all been a weird dream. He must have come home last night and gotten drunk or something, and passed out, because he was still wearing yesterday’s clothes. But when he pushed himself all the way up, the fire in the fireplace was dying, and the painting on the wall was still missing. </p>
<p>His empty teacup was still on the nightstand, and the only new development was a pile of folded clothes on the chair. He pushed the covers off and looked through the clothes. </p>
<p>There was a knock at the door, but whoever it was didn’t want for an answer before coming in. </p>
<p>“Wambsgans right?” Ewan said, “That’s your name?”</p>
<p>Tom nodded, and held the pile of clothes to his chest, again struck by the Roy genes ability to stay so strong though a century, “That’s right.”</p>
<p>“Get dressed,” Ewan said, “Then I’d like to discuss some things with you. Ask any of the staff around to show you to my study.”</p>
<p>“Yes sir,” Tom replied, like Ewan could somehow <i>see</i> through him. Which was, obviously, not the case. More than likely he wanted to know what Tom had been doing lurking on his property last night in what was likely a strange outfit. Tom didn’t know what he was going to say because Tom did not have a single idea what he was going to say. </p>
<p>Ewan gave him one more look, and turned out of the room. Tom dressed, and though the clothes were a little tight, and he looked like somebody out of fucking Dracula-- all he needed was top hat-- he stole another glance in the mirror against the wall, decided he was presentable enough, and popped out into the hallway. </p>
<p>He asked the first person he saw for directions and she gave them. Tom spent the entire walk-- which was just a few flights of stairs-- trying to come up with something Ewan would believe. He didn’t need much. All he had to do was get back outside and find that rock. It wouldn’t be that hard, because it fucking <i>buzzed</i> and he’d be set. They’d be a little confused about their mystery guest but it wouldn’t matter. Tom would be back home. Assuming it was tomorrow morning there as well-- who was to say how the time machine-rock worked-- he’d make up some stupid story about getting lost and Shiv would be none the wiser. In fact, Tom would pretend it never happened. </p>
<p>He knocked lightly on Ewan’s door and heard a <i>come in.</i></p>
<p>Both Marianne and her father were waiting. Marianne flitted in the corner of the room and smiled politely at him. On the wall was a large painting of a sunset-- he was pretty sure it was one of Marianne’s. It matched her style nicely. </p>
<p>“Mr. Wambsgans, how are you feeling this morning?”</p>
<p>“All recovered ma’am,” Tom smiled tightly, “I can be out of your hair this morning. I was kind of you to let me stay here.”</p>
<p>“Of course,” Marianne said, “Is there family around here? You’re not on your own are you?”</p>
<p>“No I suppose that I am.”</p>
<p>She frowned, “Where is your family now?”</p>
<p>“America,” Tom replied, which was, in the vaguest sense of the word, true. His <i>ancestors</i> were in America, but that was not what she meant. A better question would have been <i>when</i> is your family now? </p>
<p>“Mr. Wambsgans I don’t feel right about sending you out alone. It’s clear to me that the loss of your wife is fresh on your mind,” she said, leaning on her father’s desk, “Won’t you stay with us for a bit? At least until you’ve recovered some more. You must have taken a nasty fall.”</p>
<p>“Forgive my daughter,” Ewan leaned back in his chair, “She <i>mothers</i> anyone who will let her when her own boy is away.”</p>
<p>“Forgive my <i>father,</i>” Marianne added, “He’s not very sociable with strangers.”</p>
<p>“How did you end up in the woods last night?” Ewan folded his hands on the table, and Tom felt like he was in the principal’s office about to receive a detention.</p>
<p>“I must have wandered off,” Tom replied, “Gotten lost. I think the sun set faster than I expected.”</p>
<p>It was a bullshit answer. But if Ewan thought so, he didn’t comment. He got the impression that Ewan was studying him, looking for something off, something he could use against him. It must have been a Roy family gene. </p>
<p>“Do as you please Marianne,” Ewan waved his hand, “But I’m sure Mr. Wambsgans has a mother of his own.”</p>
<p>“Again,” Tom said, “I greatly appreciate your hospitality. I really do, but I can get on my own way. Do you think they might have a phone- a telegraph office in the town?”</p>
<p>He’d just caught himself, and corrected it quickly enough that he was pretty sure neither of them noticed, but he had to watch himself until he could get back home. The last thing he needed was someone thinking he’d gone insane and locking him up. </p>
<p>“I’m sure someone can get a message wherever you need,” Marianne replied, “You can’t stay for breakfast?”</p>
<p>“No I’m afraid not,” he stuck out a hand for Ewan to shake-- he did so begrudgingly, and he nodded to Marianne, “Thanks again.”</p>
<p>“You come back if you need anything whilst you’re in the country,” she said, and Tom slipped out of the room. He booked it down the stairs and out onto the grounds. It was bright and brisk this morning, and the walk down the hill towards the lake was easy. If someone was watching him out of the window, they probably thought he was running from something, but it didn’t really matter. </p>
<p>The path was still in his head, and he stepped through the treeline. Though it had been dark, and he’d had the sound-- which was noticeably absent this morning. Tom thought maybe that was a bad sign, but tried to ignore the sinking feeling-- and he made his way deeper into the trees until he saw the familiar clearing. The rock was there, as it had probably been for a thousand years, but when Tom knelt down to touch it, nothing happened. The stone was cold against his palms, but <i>nothing</i> happened. </p>
<p>“You’re fucking kidding me,” he said. He smacked the rock a few times, but all it earned him was a scraped and cold palm, “You have to let me go back. I can’t be stuck in a fucking Charles Dickens story. This is bullshit.”</p>
<p>The trees ignored him. The rock remained silent and cold. Tom stood up in a fury. </p>
<p>“This is such fucking bullshit,” he hissed, fighting the desire to kick it and probably break his foot, “What the fuck am I supposed to do now? Meet three fucking ghosts and become a better person? Build a fucking time machine? Fuck this.”</p>
<p>He turned on his heel and stalked out of the trees and back up to the house. Marianne would probably be glad to see him, even if Ewan didn’t seem to trust him. Maybe he could stay here a few days, and try and do some research on the area. Then he could try again.</p>
<p>Tom knew he could <i>not</i> be stuck here. That wasn’t going to happen. </p>
<p>Was it?</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Ring, Laurits Anderson. At Breakfast. 1898</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Tom, Marianne, and Ewan talk over the breakfast table.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <a href="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/1/18/Laurits_Andersen_Ring_-_Ved_frokostbordet_og_morgenaviserne.jpg">at breakfast</a>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>As he anticipated, Marianne insisted he stay for as long as he wanted. She assigned him to the guest room, informed the staff of his presence, and told him to let her know personally if he needed anything. It seemed that maybe Ewan was right. Marianne <i>did</i> need to mother someone when her own son was away. </p>
<p>Tom wanted to ask about him, but the idea of knowing more about a man who was doomed. He wanted to keep things separate. Wanted to distance himself as much as he could from a death that should have been in his past. In fact, he tried to distance himself from everyone in the house. These were not his people. They were like ghosts, separate from him through time. It was not right to become friends, to get attached when he still held out hope that he might be able to go home. It was safer, Tom had learned long ago, to distance yourself from people to avoid breaking your own heart. </p>
<p>But the days turned to a week. Then two weeks. Then almost a month. The chilliness of spring mornings began to give way to sticky summer nights, and the coldness that had seeped into the manor at night was all but gone, save for the very far away corners no one frequented. Maybe it was the long days and the warm nights, but the manor seemed less frightening now. </p>
<p>Tom scoured the library for anything to do with the land and it’s legends but the closest he could find was a few maps of the area, which were incredibly unhelpful. He trekked down to the rock nearly every day and it mocked him with it’s silence. Tom thought two could play at that game and didn’t speak back to it. </p>
<p>He even ventured down to the village one day, but the man in the newspaper office--which seemed to be the only place he might be able to research anything-- only stared at him when he asked for anything about the Roy manor estate or any folklore surrounding it. </p>
<p>When a month hit-- Tom had been keeping track of them on a scrap of paper in his bedroom he considered giving up. He’d been existing among the Roys in the way that a robot existed among people, waiting for them to discover that he did not belong. He went to breakfast and dinner when he was asked, and made polite conversation whenever he was asked to, but Marianne didn’t seem to mind it. </p>
<p>“You’re grieving after all,” she said, and that’s why all of the clothes he’d been provided with were mourning clothes. At least that’s what he’d been told when he’d briefly commented how on the fact that all of the clothing was dark. Tom didn’t know much about Victorian fashion, that was true, so he had accepted the jackets and the black gloves and everything else Marianne had his wardrobe filled with.</p>
<p>It had been an appropriate excuse for his frankly erratic behavior. But he was giving up. </p>
<p>Evidently he was stuck.</p>
<p>So he put on a happy face-- that was all. He could figure this out. He was a smart man. Maybe if he could get to a city or somewhere with a large research center. There <i>had</i> to be a fucking urban legend somewhere about it. Even if it felt like bullshit he would try it. What had been different about that night? Did he have to wait until a year from then? Till the full moon? Did he have to make a sacrifice or something? Though he was still not entirely convinced this wasn’t some breakdown induced hallucination, he had to work under the assumption that it was not. </p>
<p>He dutifully attended breakfast every morning, and even asked if Marianne wouldn’t mind if he watched her paint sometime-- she’d mentioned, thankfully, over dinner one night that she was a painter. It wouldn’t be the end of the world, he reasoned, if he was acquaintances with them. In fact, it would be hard not to.</p>
<p>A month and five days into this nightmare-- even if they were treating him like a guest, it was still a nightmare-- Ewan announced over breakfast that Rose’s children were coming to visit. </p>
<p>“Rose was my aunt,” Marianne explained, picking up her teacup. Ewan flipped through the newspaper as he did every morning. The family sat at the large dining room table for each meal, mostly in silence. Ewan never spoke much, so if Marianne didn’t say anything, it was usually dead silent, “She and my father were very close. He treats my cousins and their children like his own. You’ll stay won’t you Mr. Wambsgans?”</p>
<p>“I wouldn’t want to intrude on a family affair,” Tom replied. In fact, this could be a good excuse to visit Glasgow or Edinburgh, if he couldn’t make it to London or something. He had officially exhausted all of his resources in the entire area. He needed to expand his reach. </p>
<p>“I won’t hear that,” Marianne said, “Besides dear, I think you and my cousin Elizabeth might get along.”</p>
<p>“Leave the man alone,” Ewan said from behind his newspaper shield, “It’s unbecoming to meddle in a man’s love life Marianne.”</p>
<p>Marianne shook her head, “Don’t worry about it Papa.”</p>
<p>Tom couldn’t exactly place Marianne’s age. She didn’t wear a wedding band, and had yet to mention a husband. He knew it was possible she’d had a son out of wedlock-- and he imagined that probably hadn’t gone over well, she had to be at least his age, but she looked older. In her fifties maybe? Her sixties? Ewan looked as old as Logan, if not older, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Maybe her husband was dead, if she’d ever even have one. Whoever mystery first name Samuel Roy was, he seemed to be almost all of the close family she had.</p>
<p>He felt another twinge of sadness. </p>
<p>“If you’re inviting me, then of course I’ll stay,” Tom said, “I’d love to meet the rest of your family. Especially since you’ve been so kind to me.”</p>
<p>It was one of the truest things he’d said since he got here. Marianne had easily treated him as if he was a long lost relative. He did not receive this sort of affection from his in-laws back home, that was for sure. He felt a little nasty for even thinking it-- perhaps she was being so kind because it was expected of her. But it didn’t stop him from feeling, well, like they didn’t mind him being there. Even Ewan who was closed off and didn’t usually have much to say to Tom gave Tom the impression that he didn’t mind him. The staff were seemingly well treated, and he assumed that the other Roys would be just as nice to be around. </p>
<p>“First I’ve got to go to London,” Marianne said firmly. This got her father’s attention and he lowered the newspaper. Tom picked up a slice of toast and watched them, “I thought I would meet the others and we could return home together.”</p>
<p>“I don’t like you traveling alone,” Ewan said, “And you can’t very well bring Tom. He’s still a stranger. And I certainly won’t be going. You know how I feel about trains.”</p>
<p>“I’ll bring Emma with me,” Marianne reasoned, “And I am a grown woman.”</p>
<p>“You won’t listen if I say no,” Ewan said, “So do as you please. What are you doing in London?”</p>
<p>“I’ll bring some of my paintings. There’s always buyers. And I need some more supplies. They didn’t have what I wanted in Glasgow when we went earlier this year. I’m finally going to paint the house this summer, but I don’t have all of the colors I need.”</p>
<p>“When are you leaving?”</p>
<p>“Not for a few more days. Emma’s writing to her sister to see if they can see each other. Mr. Wambsgans, is there anything I can get you while I’m traveling?”</p>
<p>“Actually Marianne,” he said. She’d insisted early on that he calls her that, though he had tried to be polite and call her Ms. Roy. She didn’t like it very much evidently, “I was looking for a book of maybe folklore or legends of this area. It’s a bit of a project of mine. I’m interested in the place I’ve been staying.”</p>
<p>She nodded, “I’ll see if I can acquire anything for you. You can keep my father entertained while I’m gone. I promise he’s not <i>quite</i> as sour as he appears to be.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. von Leypold, Julius. Wanderer in the Storm. 1835</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Tom meets the late night visitor.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><a href="https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/439333">wanderer in the storm</a> which is my favorite painting!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Marianne was gone a week or so before Tom even saw Ewan outside of the daily meals. He spent most of his time wandering the grounds and the manor house, though he discovered nothing in the process. He returned to the village, but didn’t buy anything or speak to anyone. Actually, he was pretty certain that now that Marianne was in London, and he could drop his polite act-- he’d taken it up because his mother’s voice in his head shouted at him not to be rude to the family who had treated him like one of their own. </p>
<p>It wasn’t, really, all that different from his life back home. The Roys went about their business and Tom found things to keep himself entertained. He read in the library, and took walks around the grounds. Eventually he made his way up to the bedroom with the ghost in 1985, but there was nothing odd about the bedroom in 1860 and he didn't want to nose around too much, should Ewan get to mistrusting him. The ghost who had decided to befriend him was noticeably absent. It made Tom think that perhaps the ghost wasn’t dead yet, and it made him feel… strange.</p>
<p>He was loitering in the library with one of the art books he found when he heard Ewan shouting at someone-- he hadn’t ever heard Ewan shout before, so he tucked the book under his arm and went out to see what was going on. </p>
<p>Down the stairs he went, to where Ewan ws berating a young man who had a bag slung over his shoulder. It was clear he’d just arrived from wherever he’d been. </p>
<p>“I don’t see why it’s such a big deal-” he said, but when he noticed Tom, he stopped talking. Ewan turned around to see what was going on and Tom offered a smile that neither of them reciprocated. </p>
<p>“This is my grandson,” Ewan said, eyeing the new man unhappily. His visit was clearly unannounced and unexpected, and, perhaps, unwanted, “Who is supposed to be wasting his money in America and not darkening my doorstep.”</p>
<p>“I wasn’t <i>wasting</i> it Grandpa. I just think I made a few bad investments? That’s all.”</p>
<p>“Introduce yourself,” Ewan said, smacking the man’s ankle with his cane, “Don’t be rude to our guest.”</p>
<p>“Gregory Hirsch. Greg,” he stuck out a hand for Tom to shake, “Grandpa, I wish you wouldn’t do that, it hurts.”</p>
<p>“Tom Wambsgans,” Tom shook his hand, “I’ve been staying with your family the past few months.”</p>
<p>Tom didn’t know much about Ewan’s family and children. It was likely Marianne had siblings who had children of their own. Perhaps she was even going to meet them in London. It wasn’t his business really, to pry into family affairs. Whoever had the last name Hirsch, would probably be Greg’s mother and father. Hell, maybe Greg was even Rose’s grandchild, and simply called Ewan Grandpa because that was how he’d been raised. As if he could have predicted something like this to happen, Tom wished he’d asked Logan for his family try, so he might have something of an upper hand.</p>
<p>If he was meant to be in America, then Marianne and the others probably would be surprised when they returned from London. Tom had to admit he was a bit relieved when the man had given his last name as Hirsch. This probably wasn’t the doomed Samuel from the bible. Besides, he looked <i>nothing</i> like Marianne, who was short with soft features. Greg was tall and lanky, with a sharp face and a mess of black hair, much different than Marianne’s brown hair. </p>
<p>That was <i>something.</i> He wasn’t sure what he was going to do when and if he met Marianne’s son and he was glad he didn’t need to worry about it yet. </p>
<p>“You didn’t think to write?” Ewan said, “That you needed money?”</p>
<p>“I didn’t think you were going to give it to me. Please Grandpa, I’ve been traveling all day. Can I go to the kitchen and get dinner and then go to bed? I’ll explain it to anyone that wants to know when they ask. Where is everyone?”</p>
<p>“London,” Ewan replied, “Your mother, aunts, and cousins are all in London. They’ll be back in a week and a half or so for a dance, so you had better have a damn good story for them.”</p>
<p>“Yes sir.”</p>
<p>“Get your dinner and get off to bed. You can sleep in your old bedroom.”</p>
<p>“Thank you,” Greg slinked off, smiling politely at Tom on his way down the stairs. </p>
<p>Ewan sighed, “That boy is going to put us all in an early grave.”</p>
<p>Tom chuckled weakly, “I’m going to get something to eat and go to bed myself.”</p>
<p>“Whatever you like,” Ewan waved him off and disappeared into the dining room, probably on his way to his study. Tom followed the newcomer down to the kitchens, where he was tearing into a bowl of stew the cook-- a stout woman who Tom had yet to learn the name of, since everybody simply called her “cook.”</p>
<p>She patted Greg’s shoulder fondly.</p>
<p>“Thank you,” he said and she nodded, retreating back into the depths of the kitchen. He looked up at Tom and smiled, “You’re staying here?”</p>
<p>Tom nodded, “I got lost around here and hit my head. Marianne discovered I lost my wife. She doesn’t seem to want me to leave.”</p>
<p>“She’s like that,” Greg ate another spoonful of the stew, “They’re all in London? My mother and aunts and everything?”</p>
<p>Tom nodded, “I guess so. Why?”</p>
<p>“I have to come up with an excuse as to why I came back and I’m not a millionaire in America.”</p>
<p>“Well why aren’t you?”</p>
<p>Greg glared at him, “Mostly because I ran out of money. It’s expensive. I don’t know what I’m going to do or how I’m going to lie to make it seem not my fault.”</p>
<p>“Good luck,” Tom said. He didn’t know why, exactly, he’d come down here, but he made himself a cup of tea in silence, while Greg ate his stew, and they left to their respective rooms without saying another word. Tom couldn’t add Greg’s financial problems onto his already enormous list of his own problems. </p>
<p>He was sure the man would be fine in the end.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Raphael. School of Athens. 1509-11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Tom and Greg talk art.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <a href="https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_School_of_Athens#">school of athens</a>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Marianne and her family had returned as promised and Tom had been introduced to all eight of them-- all eight! Plus their children! He hadn’t quite expected that large of a family-- as a new family friend who was staying with them and he was mostly left alone by them. The women giggled in groups, sometimes looking at him when he passed, and he was suddenly very aware that he was, in their eyes at least, an eligible bachelor. There were three young children, who didn’t like to be around a man they didn’t know and clung to their mother’s skirts. </p>
<p>There was one boy, maybe ten or so, who seemed particularly attached to Marianne. Tom figured it was possible that this was her son, though all of the Roys sort of looked alike. Tom didn’t like that at all. He hoped desperately that Marianne’s son was not still a child. He knew that the death would be horrible regardless, but if that boy was the one who was destined to die-- well it made Tom sort of sick to think about. </p>
<p>Then there was Greg, who had said his mother was in London. But since all the women in the family fussed over him and interrogated him about his plans, Tom had no idea which one of them was actually his mother. </p>
<p>In fact, Greg was the odd one out. He was no further to figuring out who the mystery son was than before and he was afraid of asking too many questions and drawing too much attention. He figured, eventually, Marianne would introduce someone as her son and that would be that. </p>
<p>Greg, who seemed to be in trouble with most of his family, offered to accompany Tom whenever he went out, and Tom didn’t stop him. He seemed to need a break from the constant question of what he was going to do with his life. Though Tom wasn’t sure just how old Greg was, he was right in between the ages of Rose’s children, who were Marianne’s age or so, perhaps a bit younger, and Rose’s two grandchildren-- Ewan’s great niece and nephew. Perhaps this was why they were so hard on him. Because he was too old to be babied, but young enough to nag about making something with his life. He had promise, Tom supposed.</p>
<p>“Where are you going today?” Greg asked, loitering by Tom’s door that morning. The man couldn’t stay still for very long, and even now, was bouncing on his heels. </p>
<p>Tom picked up his hat, “I thought I’d go into town. Did you want to come?”</p>
<p>“If you don’t mind. Aunt Elizabeth wants me to go to London to work at her late husband’s sister's cousin’s print shop, and I’m trying to avoid her at all costs because I don’t know how to say no.”</p>
<p>Tom chuckled, “I’ll hide you in the town.”</p>
<p>It was bright and clear out that morning, warm and sunny. Tom had begun to genuinely enjoy the walk into town with Greg, where he didn’t have to even talk, because Greg easily filled any silence. Tom liked it because there was no chance of his accidentally slipping up and saying something anachronistic in the conversation, something he was constantly worried about. </p>
<p>“I thought about writing to ask Grandpa for money, but I figured it would be easier in person. You know?” Greg said.</p>
<p>“Sure. I’ll bet your family is happy to see you.”</p>
<p>“I think they’d be happier if I was a rich business owner somewhere but,” Greg shrugged, “I can’t be sure. What do you do?”</p>
<p>“I worked at my wife’s father’s business. He did… journalism.”</p>
<p>“Were you a journalist?”</p>
<p>“God no. I practically ran it.”</p>
<p>“Oh,” Greg said, though Tom thought he sounded disheartened. Like Tom was some fancy, rich CEO, and was rubbing it in Greg’s face. </p>
<p>“But I did art in school. That’s what I wanted to do before I graduated. My parents didn’t like it really, they didn’t think I’d be successful, so I did business as well. That’s all.”</p>
<p>“I didn’t even finish university. Grandpa sent me to Oxford but I wasn’t very good at it. Where did you go to school?”</p>
<p>“In America,” Tom said, knowing full well that Minnesota had only been a state for two years, and Greg probably didn’t know that, “How long will you stay here?”</p>
<p>Greg shrugged, “I don't know. I’m glad you’re here though. Good Lord I’d have to hide from them all by myself. I wasn’t very good at making friends at school or anything. Are we friends?”</p>
<p>Tom looked over and smiled, “Sure we are. We’re friends.”</p>
<p>Tom could have asked then, who Marianne’s son was, but there were several things holding him back. For starters, Marianne had only mentioned once, off handedly, that she had a son. Tom didn’t know how old he was, or where he was just then. And it seemed like a strange thing to bring up with Greg. Why would he be so interested? Just out of curiosity for the woman who’d been so kind to him? Tom couldn’t think of a good enough excuse. </p>
<p>On another level he didn’t <i>want</i> to know. Tom didn’t want to meet the man he knew was going to die in a few months. It was one thing to lose someone you were close to-- and Tom knew it was impossible not to become close to these people who let him into their personal lives. Befriending them was one thing, but knowing something horrible like that, and being able to match a smudged name in a century old bible with a living, breathing fact, was something else. </p>
<p>Tom didn’t know what he’d do when and if he found out. How he would hide it. Altering history wasn’t possible. These events had already happened, were already set in stone. Tom wasn’t God. He couldn’t stop it. And even if he could, messing with a timeline was risky. Tom didn’t belong in 1860. Perhaps if he was supposed to be here, and hadn’t stumbled upon it randomly, he’d try, but that wasn’t the case. Tom was an interloper. No, the less he knew about Marianne’s condemned son, the better. </p>
<p>“You said you studied art?”</p>
<p>Tom nodded.</p>
<p>“What’s your favorite artwork?”</p>
<p>Tom considered it carefully, acting as if he was thinking it over, when in reality, he was working through remembering the years of the paintings he’d studied. Greg couldn’t easily look up any painting he said, but it was too risky to name one that had yet to be painted. What if Greg ended up seeing it unveiled, and wondered how Tom had known about it years in advance?</p>
<p>“I’m not sure I could pick a favorite,” Tom said, “but my wife and I saw Girl with a Pearl Earring when we were abroad a few years ago. I liked that one a lot. And of course, the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel is the work of a master. I’ve always wanted to see it, but I’ve never been to the Vatican. I think the Mona Lisa is overrated as a renaissance painting. Raphael’s School of Athens is much more interesting, but doesn’t get nearly as much attention. Da Vinci always gets all the hype.”</p>
<p>Tom paused, feeling Greg’s eyes on him as they walked. </p>
<p>“What?” he asked.</p>
<p>“Nothing,” Greg hid a smile-- not very well. No wonder he was trying to hide from his family rather than lie to them. He had no poker face.</p>
<p>“What is it?”</p>
<p>“You just really like what you’re talking about. I don’t think I’ve ever been that excited to talk about something. It’s different to see you smile. You haven’t smiled much since we met. You have a nice smile.”</p>
<p>Tom frowned, but Greg was already moving past him, “Come on, let’s get to town.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Le Brun, Elizabeth Louise Vigree. Self Portrait in a Straw Hat. 1782</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Tom discovers a branch on the Roy family tree</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <a href="https://www.nationalgallery.org.uk/paintings/elisabeth-louise-vigee-le-brun-self-portrait-in-a-straw-hat">self portrait</a>
</p>
<p>Happy Valentine’s Day!!!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Mr. Wambsgans come here!” Marianne waved him over and Tom went as he was called. She was seated with her easel in front of her, “what do you think so far?”</p>
<p>“It’s lovely,” Tom replied, realizing very quickly that the painting she was working on was the painting that hung in his room of the manor house. It was almost funny, how much he had fretted over a century old painting dedicated to a man who just happened to have his name and here it was, as yet unfinished. He was the one it was for. It would have been funny if he was able to make himself believe it was true. That this wasn’t some kind of stressed induced breakdown. He knew somewhere deep down that it wasn’t, but he didn’t exactly want to admit to that, “you’re very talented.”</p>
<p>“You flatter me.”</p>
<p>“I mean it,” he said, “I studied art when I was at university. Your work belongs in a museum Marianne, it truly does.”</p>
<p>“This one will be for you,” she said, picking up her pallet and dipping a brush in, “I’ll put you in your room up there and everything. It’ll be a reminder of the time you spent with us, should you decide to leave.”</p>
<p>“That’s very kind of you ma’am,” Tom replied though he felt distinctly apart from the situation. Part of him was back in his own time, wondering about the Thomas who had earned the affections of the painter, the other part was standing here, working through the fact that this had happened. He had <i>seen</i> the proof of it, his very first afternoon in the house. But there <i>was</i> no other Thomas. The Thomas who’d earned the affection of Marianne was himself. It sort of made his head hurt, “I’m honored.”</p>
<p>“I hope you’ll take it with you whenever you leave us,” she said, peeking over the top of the canvas, “As my gift to you. I can’t say that my work will be <i>worth</i> anything in a hundred years or so, but perhaps you’ll tell your grandchildren about me.”</p>
<p>Tom smiled, “I’ll be sure to do it.”</p>
<p>“You’re blocking my sunlight,” she said, “I’m sure Greg is looking for you. I do believe he’s become attached. I don’t think he’s ever had a proper friend before.”</p>
<p>“Ewan said he’d been in America.”</p>
<p>She shook her head and sighed, “He’s been a hundred places. I sometimes think he’s not meant to be anywhere but here. He doesn’t seem to be able to stick to any other place longer than a few months. New York was the latest misadventure.”</p>
<p>Tom chuckled, “You sound like my mother.”<br/>
“I don’t know what I’m to do with the boy. He’s too much like his father, despite how much he tries not to be. Although, his father was a right bastard, and Greg’s a kind heart, that’s for sure.”</p>
<p>“Marianne?” Tom asked, as he words processed in his brain, “Forgive me, but is Greg <i>your</i> son?”</p>
<p>She nodded, “I never mentioned it? Forgive me, everyone else knows it must have slipped my mind. Greg’s my boy.”</p>
<p>“Oh,” Tom said, “he never mentioned it. I suppose I never considered it. I thought perhaps you had a sibling. He must take after his father physically as well.”</p>
<p>“The spitting image,” she sighed. This was evidently a sore spot, but Tom couldn’t ask about it now. His heart was racing, his pulse whooshing in his ears.</p>
<p>Tom excused himself quickly to hunt down Greg. He had to hear it from Greg himself, had to know this was all true. When he found Greg loitering in the garden with today’s newspaper, he pushed the paper down and Greg looked up at the interruption.</p>
<p>“Is your mother Marianne?” Tom asked quickly, “I thought she was your aunt or something. She has a different last name than you? Your name isn’t Roy.”</p>
<p>He was asking stupid questions. Marianne had said it. What did Tom think? That one of this reasons would be enough to make it untrue? Lots of children didn’t share a name with their parents.</p>
<p>“She goes by Roy ever since my father ran off, but her married name is Hirsch. She doesn’t like to be associated with him professionally, she says, and eventually it became personally as well. Why?”</p>
<p>“You don’t have any siblings? Any brothers?”</p>
<p>“No it’s just me. Why are you so worked up about that?” </p>
<p>Tom thought about the conversation with Logan in the library that felt like a lifetime ago, but technically hadn’t even happened yet. <i>Poor woman,</i> Logan had said. If Greg was Marianne’s only child, then it was his death that Logan had been talking about. </p>
<p>“What’s your middle name Greg?” Tom asked, though he had a sickening feeling in his stomach that he knew exactly what name Greg would say. </p>
<p>“My middle name? Why?”</p>
<p>“Would you answer the question please Gregory?”</p>
<p>“Samuel. After my father. <i>Why?</i>” </p>
<p>Tom felt like someone had just thrown him off a balcony and he was sailing through the air, moments away from crashing. He stumbled back several steps as if he had just been electrocuted. </p>
<p>“What’s the matter?” Greg asked, “Was that the wrong answer?”</p>
<p>“No, I just— I don’t feel very well. I think I’m going to lie down for a bit is all.”</p>
<p>“I don’t understand what’s happened.”</p>
<p>Tom waved him away, “it’s fine. It doesn’t matter. I’ll talk to you later.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Friedrich, Casper David. Wanderer above the Sea of Fog. 1818</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Tom thinks about the burden of knowledge and the implications of time travel.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wanderer_above_the_Sea_of_Fog#/media/File:Caspar_David_Friedrich_-_Wanderer_above_the_sea_of_fog.jpg">wanderer above the sea of fog</a>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Tom had seen enough time travel movies— albeit he had never expected to be in one—to know that you were not supposed to mess with the past. Step on a butterfly and kill your grandfather right? If Tom tried to step in to save Greg from dying, assuming he even could, who knew what kind of untold horrors he could unleash on the world. Maybe he keeps Greg alive and Germany wins the Second World War. He keeps Greg alive and Kennedy is never elected president. Greg doesn’t die but Shiv is never born. The timeline was set wasn’t it?</p>
<p>Tom couldn’t have the entire fate of the world in his hands. And even if preventing Greg’s death didn’t cause some kind of catastrophe, what right did Tom have to play God?</p>
<p>Besides. Greg had already <i>been</i> dead for a hundred years. Tom had seen the words in the family bible. He was getting upset about an event that was a century old. </p>
<p>Only now it wasn’t a century old. Now it was a few months away. How could he break Marianne’s heart and deprive her of her only child? How could he stand back and <i>let</i> Greg die and not even try to stop it. </p>
<p>Hadn’t he already changed the past just by being here? He’d spoken to people and changed their actions, even if just by a margin. Maybe he had spoken too long to the gardener and kept them from going into town where they were destined to fall off a curb and break their neck. Tom’s mere presence here was already not supposed to be. Anything he said or did would change the course of history, even in a minor way. </p>
<p>Tom would never have called himself a good person. Would never have tried to play a hero and was quite content to let bad things happen to people if they didn’t involve him. </p>
<p>And sure, Tom would go back to his own time— at least he hoped so anyway, hoped that somehow he’d be able to find a way back— and Greg would be dead anyway. That was how time worked. Greg’s future was already Tom’s past. </p>
<p>He paced around his room for at least half an hour trying to reconcile this in himself. He knew that, in all likelihood, he’d have met Marianne’s son at some point, especially if he was going to die in the house, and Tom had yet to figure out how to return to his own time. But he’d already made friends with Greg, and friends were hard to come by. </p>
<p>There was a gentle knock on his door and without waiting for an answer, Marianne poked her head in. She was still wearing her painting smock, and had a streak of paint across the back of one of her hands. </p>
<p>“Are you quite alright Mr. Wambsgans?”</p>
<p>“Just a headache,” he replied quickly. Greg and Marianne were the last people he wanted to talk to right now. </p>
<p>“Greg said so. I brought you a cup of tea. I find it’s a cure all. I’ll set it on your bedside table. May I come in?”</p>
<p>He nodded, and sat down at the foot of the bed. </p>
<p>She frowned at him, head cocked slightly to the side, “Are you sure that you’re alright?”</p>
<p>“I’m sure,” Tom twisted his wedding band. It was an old nervous habit of his, but he should have known she’d focus on it. </p>
<p>“You must miss your wife terribly,” she said.</p>
<p>“I do,” he replied. And it was true. He did miss Shiv. Even though they were fighting, even though he had been able to <i>feel</i> their marriage slipping through his fingers, he still missed her. Maybe they would never see each other again and it’d be as if she was dead. Maybe he’d get home and months would have passed with no explanation. Either way he did feel a bit like a widower. </p>
<p>He pressed his palms against his eyes. He was definitely <i>not</i> going to burst into tears. Tom didn’t like to cry, even when he was by himself. It was fucking embarassing. And it was even worse with Marianne standing there watching him. But given everything that was happening to him, the time travel, his failing marriage, his <i>one</i> friend’s approaching death-- he felt it justified. </p>
<p>“Oh my dear,” she explained quickly, sitting down next to him, one arm around his shoulders, “It’s quite alright. It’s alright now. Losing people we love is very difficult. But you’re a strong and well rounded man. You’ll find love again, should you look for it. Your wife would understand. And soon, it won’t hurt so much. When my mother died I was distraught for months and months. I still miss her. But we have to buck up right?”</p>
<p>“I suppose.”</p>
<p>“Listen,” she smiled and squeezed his arm, “We’re hosting a dance on Friday night. All the family will be there, friends are coming up from the city. Why don’t you come? Greg can introduce you around and maybe it’ll be good for you to be sociable. There’s several lovely women you might like to know.”</p>
<p>“I suppose so,” he wiped his eyes quickly, thankful she didn’t comment on his crying, “You didn’t have to come up all this way just to see me.”</p>
<p>“Oh nonsense,” she stood up and brushed off her skirt, “I’m just glad Greg’s made a friend. Maybe you can talk some sense into him for his next financial endeavor. He never listens to me or his grandfather about it anymore.”</p>
<p>“Sure, I’ll try if you like,” Tom muttered. She smiled again, pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek and left him to wallow. Which was just his luck. She was comforting him, with everything that he knew. </p>
<p>How could he let this happen? How could he sit back and eat at their table and sleep under their roof, knowing, full well, that Greg was going to die and Marianee would shatter. Did that make him a villain? </p>
<p>How would he live with himself?</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Renoir, Pierre-Auguste, Dance at Bougival. 1883</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Greg lets slip a secret and Tom has to think about some parts of himself that he'd rather not.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dance_at_Bougival#/media/File:Dance-At-Bougival.jpg">dance at bougival</a>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Oh shit,” Greg muttered. He grabbed Tom by the arm and pulled them both into one of the servant’s passages down to the kitchens. The floor creaked under their weight, and the lamp light was barely enough to see by. It was a far cry from the warm party that had been going strong for the past few hours. The Roys had friends all over the country who had come for the dance, including several Marianne had pointed out to him. He’d done his best to play it off, but he knew she had decided to play matchmaker for him. </p>
<p>“What ‘oh shit?’” Tom glanced back at the door that Greg had just slammed shut behind them, “What did you see?”</p>
<p>“That girl, the one in the pink dress?” Greg began peeking out into the hallway. Tom looked out too, to see who he was talking about. There was in fact, a young woman in a pink dress, talking to a woman who was probably her mother, if looks were anything to go by. Greg dragged him back inside before the women could turn around. </p>
<p>“What about her?” Tom asked. Greg pressed against him as one of the staff slid by with a tray of wine. Tom was deeply aware of Greg’s weight against him. He pushed Greg off the moment the door slammed again. </p>
<p>“My mother wants me to marry her I think,” Greg said, “Or at least court her. I don’t know. Has she been trying to find you a suitable match? She’s worried about you I think.”</p>
<p>Tom felt something strange in his stomach at the thought of Greg marrying. He would almost call it jealousy if he didn’t know better. But it couldn’t be that. He wouldn’t <i>let</i> it be that.</p>
<p>“She’s very pretty,” Tom reasoned, “Blonde. A little short for you. Might look bad.”</p>
<p>Greg shook his head, “it’s not any of that. She just isn’t what, ideally, I think, I would look for, you know, in a romantic partner.”</p>
<p>“Why are you talking like that? What <i>are</i> you looking for?”</p>
<p>“Mostly for them to have a brother,” Greg muttered, poking his head outside again. Evidently the coast was not clear, because he slammed it shut again. When he turned back around, he seemed to be cringing at what he’d just admitted, “Don’t tell my grandfather I told you that. I don’t want to get disowned.”</p>
<p>“I obviously won’t tell anybody,” Tom said, “Does your mother know?”</p>
<p>“No. I don’t know how I would even tell her that. I don’t even know how I told you that.”</p>
<p>“Have you never told anyone that?” Tom asked. He knew this was…  rich coming from him, all things considered, but Greg didn’t need to know about that. Tom didn’t even like thinking about all that.</p>
<p>“Not really? Can we stop talking about this please? Why are you so interested?”</p>
<p>“Greg, I don’t give a shit about who you like to fuck,” Tom said, as blunt as he could, “You’re acting like this girl is going to come and drag you out kicking and screaming. <i>I</i> was making polite conversation. You turned this into talk therapy. Would you calm down a little bit?”</p>
<p>Greg frowned, “I just thought that we were friends. I guess that’s why I said it. I’ll leave you alone.”</p>
<p>“No wait,” Tom grabbed Greg’s elbow to stop him from leaving, “I’m sorry. That was mean.”</p>
<p>“It’s alright,” Greg said, “I don’t want to marry her.”</p>
<p>“I can see that,” Tom sighed, “Well, what do you propose we do about it? If you go out there, you’ll have to dance with her. And I don’t see you as being much of a <i>dancer.</i> Am I wrong?”</p>
<p>“Everybody’s so embarrassed that I can’t dance. I keep stepping on people when I try.”</p>
<p>“Well that’s one way to get a girl not to marry you,” Tom pointed out, “I’m not hiding the stairway for the rest of the night when there’s good wine out there and I’m not currently drinking it. Are you going to sulk in the shadows of the house or are you going to go out to the party so your mother doesn’t have to search for you? You’re not a little kid Greg.”</p>
<p>He wasn’t sure why, exactly, he was being so harsh. What was it to him if Greg didn’t want to marry this girl his mother had picked out? Greg was going to be dead in a few months-- Tom felt a little sick at the thought-- and wasn’t that just how things worked back in the day? Parents picked out suitable partners and everybody was miserable together? Why did Tom care if Greg had a happy marriage?</p>
<p>(He knew, really, if he thought about it, but he would never, ever admit it.)</p>
<p>“She wants me to be happy,” Greg kicked at the floor with the toe of his boot, “Right?”</p>
<p>“Your mother? Of course she does. She’s your <i>mother.</i>”</p>
<p>“Did you have a happy marriage with your wife before she died?” Greg asked, so Goddamn earnestly, Tom wanted to smack him.</p>
<p>“Sometimes,” Tom said, “Not always. It doesn’t matter.”</p>
<p>“But don’t you <i>want</i> to be happy?” Greg asked. Tom got the impression he was trying to get Tom to be on his side, somehow. To poke him enough and get him to admit that it was all fucking bullshit, every single thing. </p>
<p>He didn’t like Greg’s question. Greg who did not know Shiv, did not know their marriage and knew very little about Tom in general. Tom didn’t like Greg’s question because </p>
<p>Tom glared at him, “Dance with the woman or don’t Greg, holy shit you’re difficult to be around sometimes. I’m getting fucking claustrophobic standing here. </p>
<p>He brushed past Greg who looked both hurt and confused. But it was all too much. Tom had to admit that he <i>thought</i> that he had done a very good job of hiding things about himself. Had played happy husband to his lovely wife, the American dream or some bullshit like that. But there were things he knew about himself, deep down, feelings he never let see the light, and honestly how <i>dare</i> Greg be so casual about it, when objectively he would suffer more for it than Tom probably would, should it all come out. Not that Tom would tell him. He was an asshole, but not that big of an asshole.</p>
<p>No one stopped him from heading out into the back. Couples milled about, and he could <i>just</i> hear the orchestra from the garden bench he found empty. The doors were open to accommodate the guests and to let in the warm air. He could just see the light from the dance and he turned away from it.</p>
<p>No doubt, if Marianne saw him, she’d come fussing after him, but Tom needed just a few minutes to himself. </p>
<p>Tom knew, somewhere, inside, that he liked men. He did. It was like he knew he had brown hair. Knew he didn’t like shellfish. Knew that his favorite Van Gogh painting was <i>Sunflowers,</i> knew that he had inherited his mother’s taste for Reeses Cups but his father’s <i>distaste</i> for strawberry jelly in his sandwiches. It was part of who he was, but as soon as Tom had realized it, all of his energy had gone to pretending it wasn’t there. </p>
<p>Realistically, he probably could have told Shiv. It was clear she didn’t mind inviting a woman into their bed, and he thought, if he <i>did</i> tell her, she’d shrug and offer a man next time. In fact, he was almost certain she wouldn’t care in the slightest. But <i>Tom</i> cared. </p>
<p>The kicker was that Tom thought Greg was attractive. Sure, he was kind of goofy, but he <i>was</i> attractive. Tom liked being around him. But he could <i>not</i> fall for a doomed man. There was far too much at stake for that. </p>
<p>“Tom?” someone-- he knew it was Greg, but sent a quick prayer up to anybody who would listen that it wasn’t, “Are you alright?”</p>
<p>Tom looked up.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Stuart, Gilbert. The Skater. 1782</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Greg confronts Tom, and Tom gives a dance lesson.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Greg would have made a good painting, Tom thought, with the moon behind him as it was, frowning down at Tom. </p>
<p>“I’m fine,” Tom said, “Sorry about that.”</p>
<p>Greg sat down on the bench too. It wasn’t the same bench, Tom thought, as he heard the wood creak to accommodate Greg’s added weight. Likely this wood would wear away, and be replaced, but he couldn’t help but remember the conversation he’d had with Shiv on the garden bench, and the flower that had been presented to him.</p>
<p>“Did I say something to offend you?” Greg asked. He dug around his coat pocket-- it didn’t help that it was a formal party, and Greg was dressed to the nines in a suit his mother had corralled him into earlier that day. He lit a cigarette, the small light working hard against the darkness of the night, “I didn’t mean to.”</p>
<p>“Can I get a drag?” Tom asked, much to his own surprise. Greg nodded and handed it over. He took a few puffs, felt the smoke in his lungs, coughed once, and handed it back, “Thanks.”</p>
<p>“Tom, did I offend you? I promise I wasn’t trying to… flirt with you. If it made you uncomfortable I’m sorry. It slipped out before I could stop it.”</p>
<p>“You didn’t offend me. It’s my fault I just… I don’t always like who I am, Greg. I didn’t like how I reacted. It was uncalled for. That’s all. I’m sorry. I promise it’s not about you.”</p>
<p>That was all Tom was going to share. Greg might have been happy to share his life story with a man he’d known for a month, but Tom was a little more tight lipped than that. </p>
<p>Greg took a long drag of his cigarette. </p>
<p>“You know those aren’t good for you,” Tom said, “Lung cancer.”</p>
<p>“I’ve never heard anyone say that before,” Greg replied, taking a long drag. Tom figured lung cancer wasn’t going to get him anyway, so there wasn’t much cause for concern, “Want another drag?”</p>
<p>“Yes please.”</p>
<p>They sat in silence for several minutes. Tom could feel the seconds tick by, could feel the strange tension between them. He hadn’t had enough friends in his life to have very much experience with how to make up with them. He didn’t want Greg to be mad at him, not when Greg was the one he spent most of his time with. Not when Greg was the only fucking friend he had both past and present. </p>
<p>“What are you going to do about this girl?” Tom asked. He finally handed the cigarette back. He didn’t think he was going to take up the habit, “I can’t see Marianne letting you off that easy.”</p>
<p>“There’s far too many people in there for me to even attempt to dance with her,” Greg said, “I thought I’d go hide in my room when I was sure you didn’t hate me.”</p>
<p>“I can teach you to dance,” Tom said, “Well, I can teach you not to embarrass yourself. Shiv and I took a couple of lessons before we got married.”</p>
<p>He stood up suddenly, unsure of what he was doing until he had started doing it. Nothing mattered, after all. Tom was here when he shouldn’t have been, Greg had a death date, Shiv probably was going to kill him for disappearing, and it was a warm early summer night. </p>
<p>“What do you mean?” Greg asked. Tom held out a hand and Greg stared at it, “Like now?”</p>
<p>“Sure. Maybe I can get some lessons in that big pretty head of yours and you can make your future wife somewhat less embarrassed to be seen by you.”</p>
<p>“I wish you wouldn’t call her that,” Greg muttered, taking Tom’s hand and standing up, “I’m trying to avoid going to the altar.”</p>
<p>“Dancing is an important skill,” Tom pointed out, “Haven’t you read Pride and Prejudice? You’re an upper class man, and if you’re bad at dancing there’s no way your mother will be able to marry you off. I’m leading, so just do what I do when you have to dance with a woman, and don’t say I never taught you anything.”</p>
<p>“Why would I say that?” Greg asked, and Tom placed his hand on his own shoulder. His other hand settled on Tom’s upper arm. It was <i>incredibly</i> intimate. </p>
<p>“It’s just an expression,” Tom replied, “Would you fucking cooperate? You’re a fucking Barbie doll with your stiff arms.”</p>
<p>“What’s a Barbie doll?” Greg cocked his head to one side. </p>
<p>“Just a toy for kids,” Tom said quickly, kicking himself for his slip up. He was getting too comfortable talking with Greg. He had to be cautious. If he let too much out… it could be bad. Messing with time was dangerous, “It doesn’t matter. You’re getting distracted dumbass.”</p>
<p>“There’s no music,” Greg pointed out. Tom wondered if he could also practically taste the strange tension between them. He’d never been this close to Greg before. And Goddamnit, he was even prettier up close, all soft features and big eyes. Like a fucking Basset Hound or something. Tom hated it. He really did. He hated that he found himself attracted to Greg, when he’d spent most of his life pretending that wasn’t possible. It was all bullshit. He should have shaken Greg off of him and run back inside. </p>
<p>But he didn’t. It was sort of nice, with Greg’s hands on him. Even if he didn’t like admitting to it. </p>
<p>But Shiv wasn’t here. Logan wasn’t here. Right now it was just him and Greg. If he kissed Greg right now, nobody would know. Greg wouldn’t tell, that was certain.</p>
<p>He didn’t though. He bit back the desire.</p>
<p>“You don’t need music. I’ll hum and you can pretend. You have an imagination, no?” Tom tried to sound teasing, but instead he sounded pathetic. </p>
<p>“Too much, my grandfather says, it’s a burden I guess.”</p>
<p>Tom cracked a smile, “I guess there are worse burdens to have. Now shut up you’re getting distracted. It’s dance lesson time.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. Gasue, Wilhelm. Court Ball at Hofburg. 1900</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Tom plays wallflower at the dance.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wilhelm_Gause#/media/File:Wilhelm_Gause_Hofball_in_Wien.jpg">court dance</a>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Tom managed to drag Greg back inside, and shoo him off in the direction of his aunts who in turn, shooed him off in the direction of, Tom was pretty sure, every single eligible woman at the party. That was fine though. Maybe Greg would enjoy the dance, if nothing else. Tom needed some kind of break from Greg hanging around him. He’d gotten far too… flustered in the garden with Greg which would not be allowed to happen. </p>
<p>Greg didn’t look like one dance lesson had done much to help him-- Tom had hoped he’d have had several years to learn how to deal with his height, but apparently that wasn’t the case. Tom snatched another glass of wine and kept this his spot in the corner.</p>
<p>“Hello Mr. Wambsgans,” Marianne said, “I see you got Greg not to hide.”</p>
<p>Tom smiled, “Does he do that often?”</p>
<p>“He doesn’t like parties,” she frowned at Greg who seemed to be wincing at whatever the girl he was dancing with was talking about, “I worry about him.”</p>
<p>“I’m sure he’ll be alright in the end,” Tom said, each word feeling like he’d just stabbed himself in the gut. </p>
<p>“Don’t you dance?” Marianne asked.</p>
<p>“Not since my wedding, no.”</p>
<p>“You’ve been a good friend to my son,” she said, putting a hand on his arm, “And I thank you for it. He… has difficulties with making friends I think. When his father <i>left</i> he was so embarrassed. Not, exactly, by his father’s actions, but by the scandal it gave his name.”</p>
<p>Tom wanted to ask more about Greg’s father, Marianne’s husband, who seemed to be a sore subject. Greg didn’t say much beyond the fact that his mother used her maiden name, and that she didn’t seem to like the fact that he inherited all his father’s looks. </p>
<p>“I’ve started seeing someone,” she said, looking up at him, “Don’t tell him. His father and I are technically still married, and I wouldn’t want him to look at me the way he looks at him.”</p>
<p>Tom wanted to tell her that <i>he</i> was technically still married, but he’d already fucked up in his conversation with Greg by talking about Goddamn Barbie dolls of all things. He had to be cautious. Most things could be excused, but his mere arrival was suspicious enough. The last thing he needed to do was mention something relevant that hadn’t happened yet. It wasn’t exactly that he thought the Roys would have him locked up-- at first he’d thought that, but he couldn’t draw too much attention. </p>
<p>Sometimes he caught Ewan looking at him, trying to read Tom like he was a book. Whatever Ewan knew-- he was a secretive man-- Tom didn’t like it. </p>
<p>“So a new man huh?” Tom took a sip of his wine and he would have sworn that Marianne blushed. </p>
<p>“It’s nothing,” she said quickly, “You mustn’t tell anyone. My father would never let me out of the manor if he discovered it.” </p>
<p>She rolled her eyes, which told him she didn't seem to care much what her father thought. </p>
<p>Quickly realizing he was becoming the Roy family secret keeper, Tom nodded, “Your secret is safe with me.”</p>
<p>“I always wished I had more children,” she said bluntly. Tom appreciated her, in that she didn’t seem to have the kind of timid presence he had thought Victorian women might have. In fact, she reminded him a bit of his own mother, which was an incredibly strange experience. A woman a century ago could seem so much like his own mother. Two women who would never meet, with two <i>vastly</i> different life experiences, “Even just a daughter, so I could have another son when she married and Greg could have a brother. I don’t know about Greg. I don’t think he ought to be alone.”</p>
<p><i>Do you know?</i> Tom wanted to ask. He didn’t understand a mother’s intuition-- how his mother seemed to call whenever he was about a day or two away from losing his mind, or when she could sense he’d gotten pushed on the playground when he was a kid, and had cookies in the oven when he got home. Marianne had to have <i>some</i> kind of idea about her son. But did she know about him? Did she know he was, as much as he hated to admit it, fucking <i>jealous</i> of the girl Greg was sort of dancing with?</p>
<p>“Miss Roy?” someone asked, and both Tom and Marianne looked up.</p>
<p>“Oh,” Marianne smiled, and touched the string of pearls around her neck. Tom looked between her and the man-- he was her age or so, maybe a little older, and given the state of his dress, he had <i>money,</i> “John, dear, this is Tom Wambsgans, Greg’s new friend.”</p>
<p>“Pleasure,” Jonathan said, offering Tom a handshake, “Miss Roy, do you think I might have the next dance?”</p>
<p>“Of course,” she set her wine glass down, shot Tom a look that he took to mean that <i>this</i> was the man she’d been seeing, and he offered her a smile back. It was nice to see people happy, to see couples dancing, but Tom was suddenly very aware that this was not for him. Marianne had been kind to invite him, and Greg had been even <i>kinder</i> to come looking for him, but this was not a place for him. He belonged in his own time, with his own family. Try as he might-- and he was fucking <i>trying</i> because he was pretty sure he was going to be stuck here for the rest of his life-- Tom did not fit in here. </p>
<p>And how could he? People weren’t meant to appear a hundred years in the past and assimilate easily. How did you leave behind everything and pretend you belonged somewhere else. </p>
<p>Maybe he’d been too casual about the whole thing. Mostly he’d given up trying to hunt down a way home. The books on folklore Marianne had found for him sat mostly untouched on his bedside table. He stopped his daily walks to the woods. He was growing complacent and that couldn’t happen. </p>
<p>Tom wasn't religious, that was true. But there had to be a <i>reason</i> that Tom ended up here.</p>
<p>He took a sip of his wine and looked over at Greg. </p>
<p>Surely <i>Greg</i> wasn’t the reason. Greg who was going to die in September. Greg who didn’t know about time travel or any of it. </p>
<p>He needed some fucking guidance about it all.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0022"><h2>22. Caravaggio. The Incredulity of Saint Thomas. 1601-02</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Tom gives religion a try in his search for the right thing to do.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Incredulity_of_Saint_Thomas_(Caravaggio)#/media/File:Caravaggio_-_The_Incredulity_of_Saint_Thomas.jpg">the incredulity of st thomas</a>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There was a church down in the town and the morning after the party, Tom made his way there. No one had thought it odd, even though Tom hadn’t been to a church since he was a child. He didn’t know exactly what he was going to ask, but he wanted some completely neutral third party, and a priest felt like it would fit the bill. He slipped into the old building, which smelled like wood and dust, and was greeted by an older man in priest’s robes.</p>
<p>“What can I do for you lad?” the priest asked. </p>
<p>“I’m having a bit of a dilemma,” Tom admitted, “I was hoping for some advice on.”</p>
<p>“Of course.”</p>
<p>Tom sighed. He tried to think of what to say on the walk down, but he’d drawn mostly blanks. It wasn’t a conversation that could easily be had, and besides, he had to be careful not to come out and say that he was from the future and that he knew someone was going to die, and should he do something about that? Mostly because he wasn’t sure if Scotland was still burning people at the stake for being a witch, and that <i>really</i> wasn’t something Tom wanted to have to get out of.</p>
<p>“If, I suppose this is a hypothetical, but if I knew that something bad was going to happen to someone. That they were in danger, and you could save them, bring their family happiness and peace instead of heartache, do you have a duty to help them?”</p>
<p>“You’re asking if we’ve a duty to our fellow man?”</p>
<p>“In a way.”</p>
<p>The priest frowned, “Well I suppose we do, inherently, have a duty to help those we know need it. The poor, the infim for example.”</p>
<p>“<i>But,</i>” Tom continued, “In saving this person, what if, hypothetically speaking, you were doing some kind of untold horror on future generations, say a hundred years or so. What if- well, what if you condemned someone far in the future who might otherwise be spared if you let the person you were going to save be harmed.”</p>
<p>The priest blinked at him several times, as if trying to process Tom’s words and maybe he was. Tom knew he was borderline incoherent at this point. But what else could he expect of himself, knowing Greg’s death certificate was dated, just waiting to be signed. His question didn’t make a lot of sense. </p>
<p>“You have to have faith that God will provide for those who come after us,” he said finally. Tom bit back a reply about how God hadn’t done much for him in his life, but decided now wasn’t the time or the place, “In a hundred years you and I will be ash and dust my son. There’s no way to know what the world will hold in the next few months, much less the next hundred <i>years.</i>”</p>
<p>“You’d be surprised,” Tom frowned, “But no matter. What is the right choice here, Father?”</p>
<p>“I think you should ask God for guidance on this. It sounds like you may be going through this dilemma inside, and it’s good to ask for help. You don’t have to do everything by yourself. But this is the here and now. The future is yet to come and we don’t decide what happens a hundred years from now.”</p>
<p>Tom pressed down a scoff, “Right.”</p>
<p>“I’ll say a prayer for you tonight,” the priest smiled, “Is there anything else I can help you with?”</p>
<p>“I have just one more question,” Tom said softly. </p>
<p>“Hmm?”</p>
<p>“If, again, hypothetically, I did know something, do I warn the person it’s going to happen to?”</p>
<p>“That’s not so much for them,” the priest said after several quiet moments, “Because we can’t control what God has planned. But perhaps for you. If it weighs on your heart, and you think perhaps it could be helpful, then yes. But you shouldn't make this person you seem to care for miserable by telling them something that <i>might</i> happen. Only God knows what’s certain.”</p>
<p>“I suppose.”</p>
<p>“Does that help?”</p>
<p>“Sure,” Tom said, “Thank you.”</p>
<p>He’d tell Greg about the time travel. The death… that could wait. It was all a lot to take in at one time, and he wondered if dumping it all on Greg’s lap at once would be too much. September was still far enough away that he could afford to wait. And also, Greg didn’t know how to tell Greg, someone that he fucking cared about-- cared a lot about-- that he was going to die. </p>
<p>Surely this was not his lot in life. </p>
<p>He said his goodbyes, and thanked him again, and began the trudge back up to the house. Telling Greg would be… difficult. Greg, in all fairness, shouldn't believe him because it <i>sounded</i> like bullshit. Tom still didn’t entirely believe it himself. </p>
<p>When you fucking cared about someone-- and no matter how hard he tried to deny it, Greg had managed to worm his way into gaining Tom’s affections-- you wanted to tell them the things you were hiding. He’d have told Shiv, if he was a fucking Goddamn time traveller. Telling Greg was the same thing. It was fair. </p>
<p>Not that life had ever been fair to Tom. </p>
<p>Back up at the house, Greg was fucking waiting for him. </p>
<p>“Are you alright?” Greg asked.</p>
<p>“I’m fine,” Tom replied, which was so far from the truth it was hard to even say, “I need to talk to you.”</p>
<p>“Greg!” Ewan shouted from the top of the stairs. Tom felt like the universe was trying to stop him, even though that was stupid, “I need to see you up here.” </p>
<p>“Just a second Grandpa,” Greg called back, “What is it?”</p>
<p>Tom sighed, “I’ll tell you later. Go see what your grandfather wants.”</p>
<p>Really, Tom wasn’t going to do as the universe wanted. Try as it might to stop him, Tom was going to tell Greg where he was from. And then they’d go from there.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0023"><h2>23. Simberg, Hugo. The Garden of Death. 1896</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Tom lets Greg in on his secret.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Garden_of_Death#/media/File:Hugo_Simberg_Garden_of_Death.jpg">the garden of death</a> which is as goth looking as it sounds</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Greg was waiting for him to speak first. Which was more than fair, considering that Tom had asked him to take a walk after dinner, told him he had something important to say, and then shut up for the rest of the walk. Mostly because Tom didn’t know what he was going to say just yet, and he worried about what might come out of his mouth. There had to be some line between saying something unbelievable and not sounding insane, and saying something impossible and proving it was true.</p>
<p>“I need to tell you something,” Tom began, which was the same sentence he’d said four times this evening but never continued, “but I don’t think you’ll believe me.”</p>
<p>“Why wouldn’t I believe you?”</p>
<p>“Because it’s batshit crazy.” </p>
<p>Greg blinked at him, “well what is it?”</p>
<p>Tom sighed. He jammed his hands into his pockets and shook his head. He hadn’t, actually, ever expected to have to talk about this sort of thing, so he didn’t know where to start. He wandered over to the edge of the gardens and shook his head before turning back around. Greg hadn’t moved from his spot, ten or so feet away.</p>
<p>“You have to promise me that you’re not going to have me thrown in prison for being insane,” Tom said. </p>
<p>“Just tell me. It’s fine, whatever it is. Especially since you’re clearly upset about something. What’s been going on?”</p>
<p>“I’m from the future.”</p>
<p>Tom figured it was best to just say it. To get it out in the open, "I know it sounds insane, but it's the truth. I swear to fucking God."</p>
<p>“You were right. It’s pretty unbelievable.”</p>
<p>“I knew you’d be a dick about it,” Tom shot back, “I don’t even know why I fucking bothered telling you.”</p>
<p>“I didn’t <i>say</i> that I didn’t believe you. I <i>said</i> that it was unbelievable. I don’t think you’d lie to me about this.”</p>
<p>They stared at each other. The wind picked up a bit, reminding Tom of his ghost friend back in his real life, and if he thought Greg was going to crack, going to admit he was just joking, and he thought Tom was insane, it didn’t appear to be happening.</p>
<p>“Did you try to get back?”</p>
<p>“Oh gee Greg, that thought never crossed my mind! Thank Christ we’ve got a mental fucking giant to suggest something like that. Of course I tried. Whatever allowed me to get here the first time is gone. I’m fucking stuck.”</p>
<p>“I just thought I’d ask.”</p>
<p>“Sorry,” Tom rubbed the back of his neck, “It’s not your fault I’m stuck.”</p>
<p>“I think I believe you,” Greg said, “But I also think I need to sit down.”</p>
<p>This was understandable. Greg didn’t even know about <i>television</i> or fucking <i>phones</i> and here Tom was telling him that he was a fucking time traveller. It made his decision not to tell Greg anything more just yet even more firm in his mind. Hell, it might even kill him on the spot. </p>
<p>Tom didn’t think Greg would like it if he sat down next to him. Instead he examined the flowers, hands clasped behind his back, giving Greg the silence and space he probably needed. There were the marigolds he remembered. Someone apparently kept the garden in good shape.</p>
<p>“It’s my Aunt’s garden,” Greg said from the bench, “My grandfather makes sure all of the same flowers are there each year. Apparently she spent a lot of time working on it.”</p>
<p>Tom turned around, “You look like you’re going to pass out. Put your head between your knees, that’ll help. I know it’s… I know it’s a lot Greg, and I’m sorry. But I had to tell someone. And I need you to know that I’m not lying to you.”</p>
<p>Greg waved a hand, “I’m fine. I’m trying to find it in myself to not believe you, but I can’t. I <i>believe</i> you.”</p>
<p>“You do?”</p>
<p>Greg nodded slowly, “I can’t believe that I do, but I do.”</p>
<p>“Tell me about your aunt’s garden. We’ll talk about something else if you like.”</p>
<p>Greg still seemed distant, as he pushed himself up off the bench and came over. Tom was again very aware of their closeness. He had the stupid desire to lean over and kiss Greg or something equally as stupid. Instead, he pointed at the flowers. Better to talk about a neutral topic.</p>
<p>“She loved her garden. That’s what Grandpa always says. When she died, he said that the gardeners should always keep up with the flowers she’d planted.”</p>
<p>“Marigolds are my favorite flower,” Tom said, because he had a growing feeling in his gut that Greg needed to know that. That Greg was going to give him a flower a hundred years from now because of this conversation. It really made him wish there was aspirin readily available. </p>
<p>“Really?”</p>
<p>“In thirteen years, Dante Rossetti is going to paint a work called Marigolds,” Tom said. The words felt strange in his mouth, like he shouldn’t be saying them out loud. They were forbidden and wrong, but here was was, just saying any-fucking-thing to a man who was a century older than him, who was going to die before the year was up, and who Tom was <i>deeply</i> worried he was developing real feelings for, “In London. And then next fucking century I’m going to write a paper on it in college. I’d signed up for art classes without telling my parents. They never got it, you know? Thought it wouldn’t be helpful. I promised myself if I could do well in the classes my first semester, I’d keep the minor. And then I got an A. I guess I should thank him.”</p>
<p>“Maybe we can go and see it in its prime,” Greg said, turning just a bit to look at Tom, “I mean, London’s not that far. If you can’t- if <i>we</i> can’t figure out how to get you back, then maybe you can meet him or something. My mother has plenty of connections in the art world you know.”</p>
<p>Tom swallowed, “Yeah. Maybe so. That’d be really nice.”</p>
<p>He was going to have to tell Greg. There was no way that he couldn’t. </p>
<p>The guilt would eat him alive.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0024"><h2>24. Rufino, Tamayo. Women Reaching for the Moon. 1946</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Tom finally tells Greg the rest of what he knows and Greg's reaction it a bit surprising, to say the least</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <a href="https://www.mutualart.com/Artwork/Women-Reaching-for-the-Moon/3432FCF5ECA2705D">women reaching for the moon</a>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Over the next few days, Greg would ask questions about the future when he figured Tom wasn’t paying attention. Tom thought that maybe Greg was trying to catch him off guard. Like he was testing Tom’s truthfulness. </p>
<p>But he never got the impression that Greg didn’t believe him, even though he had every right </p>
<p>They were out on the back lawns, and the moon hung low in the sky. Tom liked the fresh air, even though summer was rushing by, and with it, so was Greg’s last few weeks. Whenever Tom went somewhere, he asked Greg to go with him. It felt, just a little bit, like dating. Not that he was going to think too hard about that. </p>
<p>“You see that spot on the moon?” Tom asked, pointing towards the sky. The grass was warm on his back, and the air was humid and heavy, “Towards the bottom? That crater?”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“That’s the Sea of Tranquility,” Tom replied, “That’s where men will walk on the moon.”</p>
<p>“Alright now you’re playing with me,” Greg propped himself up on one elbow, “I’m willing to believe quite a lot Tom, but I don’t know about this.”</p>
<p>“I mean it,” Tom replied, “Why would I lie?”</p>
<p>“You just want to see what I’ll believe,” Greg argued, “You’re teasing me.”</p>
<p>“I’m serious. 1969. I was twenty seven. Everybody watched it live as it happened.”</p>
<p>“How?”</p>
<p>Tom frowned and sat up. Greg pulled his knees against his chest, waiting, expectantly, for Tom to somehow explain television and the moon landing to a man who had not the faintest idea what those were. Tom wasn’t sure where to begin. </p>
<p>“How did we get to the moon or how did I see it?”</p>
<p>“Well yes, both of those but how did you <i>get</i> here Tom? How did you leave 1985 and end up here with me right now?” </p>
<p>He frowned, “I wish I could explain it to you. I just, I was out. My wife and I had had a rough few days. We’d been arguing. So I went to get some air after dinner and I heard a noise. A humming, buzzing sort of sound and I followed it.”</p>
<p>“And then you showed up here?”</p>
<p>Tom nodded. </p>
<p>“When were you born?”</p>
<p>“1943.”</p>
<p>Greg whistled, “That’s far away.”</p>
<p>“I feel like you’re calling me <i>old.</i>”</p>
<p>“You’re older than I am. Right? I’m pretty sure you’re older than I am.”</p>
<p>“I most certainly am not,” Tom replied, “You’re at <i>least</i> a hundred years older than I am. I should be calling you old. You’re an old man Greg.”</p>
<p>Greg laughed, “Sounds like something you’d say if you were old Tom. You’re how old now?”</p>
<p>“I haven’t even been born yet.”</p>
<p>“I mean, you are sitting right in front of me. I’m pretty sure that means you’ve been born.”</p>
<p>Tom rolled his eyes, “You’re an idiot.”</p>
<p>“Don’t you want to go home?”</p>
<p>Tom frowned. It was the first time he’d given much thought to it in the past few days, since he’d told Greg about the whole time travel business. Of course Tom wanted to go home. He missed Shiv, and his mother, and running water, and aspirin, but he had tried his best to give up that wanting. It was quite clear that he was trapped here. What good did the wanting do? The last time he’d <i>wanted</i> it had been the dance. If he stopped thinking about it… it went away. What did that mean? </p>
<p>“Sure I do,” he pulled absentmindedly at the grass to give his hand something to do, “But I don’t think I can. I guess there’s worse people to be stuck with.”</p>
<p>“Funny,” Greg cracked a smile, “I was thinking the same thing.”</p>
<p>Tom tossed his ripped up grass in Greg’s general direction. </p>
<p>The silence fell again. The moon was nearly full tonight, giving them plenty of light.</p>
<p>“Greg?” Tom asked quietly. He didn’t exactly <i>want</i> to tell Greg this, but the guilt of knowing it was eating him alive. If he was Greg he would want to know. He thought, at least, he’d want to know, “I need to tell you something.”</p>
<p>“If you’re going to tell me more about traveling the stars I don’t want to hear it. I won't believe you. I still think you’re lying about the moon.”</p>
<p>Tom swallowed and shook his head, “It’s not that. It’s… bad. I don’t know if you’ll want to know it but I think I need to give you the option to know it.”</p>
<p>“What is it?”</p>
<p>“There’s a death, listed in the Roy family bible for this September,” Tom began.</p>
<p>“Is it my mother?” Greg asked quietly, “If it’s my mother, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”</p>
<p>Tom shook his head, “You remember how I asked you for your middle name?”</p>
<p>“Yes?”</p>
<p>“Come on Greg, put it together. There was a smudge in the writing. All I had to go on was a middle name. Why do you think I reacted the way that I did.”</p>
<p>Greg’s face fell. Tom wished he didn’t know a damn thing about anything. Wished he and Greg could be normal fucking friends in a normal fucking time and Tom wasn’t cursed with the knowledge of the past, and Greg wasn’t doomed to die <i>years</i> before Tom was even born. </p>
<p>“I didn’t know if you’d want to know. But it’s fucking eating me up not telling you.”</p>
<p>“I’m going to <i>die?</i>”</p>
<p>“Well I don’t suppose it’s written in stone,” Tom replied, “more like written in a family bible a hundred years from now. It wasn’t a grave, if that helps.”</p>
<p>“It doesn’t help.”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry.”</p>
<p>“There’s no way to stop it,” Greg resoned, mostly, Tom thought, to himself, “I mean. It’s already happened. How can you stop something that’s already happened.”</p>
<p>“Greg, no offense, but I can’t just let you die.”</p>
<p>“I don’t see what you can do about it. Do you know how?”</p>
<p>Tom swallowed and nodded, “A fire.”</p>
<p>Greg paled, and Tom wondered if he felt as sick as he looked, “Shit.”</p>
<p>Neither of them spoke again. Greg seemed to be staring at nothing on the grass in front of him. Tom wasn’t sure how you comforted someone for something like this. Usually, when Shiv was upset, he sat with her until she wanted to talk, or, when she was angry, he listened to her anger until she wore herself out. But he’d never faced anything like this-- how would he have? This was a unique situation. </p>
<p>“I’m sorry to have to tell you,” Tom said. </p>
<p>“No,” Greg’s voice was soft and strained, “I’m glad you did.”</p>
<p>“I think we can try to stop it.,” Tom said, “There’s got to be a way. I’ve been trying to experiment a bit, but now we can try together. To see how much of history we’re allowed to alter.”</p>
<p>“Sure,” Greg said. It seemed as if he was losing the ability to speak. And why shouldn't he have? Tom had just handed him his death sentence, “Sure I’ll help you. I mean, I’d be stupid not to.”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry I had to tell you,” Tom said again, “I thought about it for a long time, but you <i>deserve</i> to know. To try and stop it. I like you. I don’t want you to die.”</p>
<p>Greg nodded, “When?”</p>
<p>“September. The twentieth.” It was nearing mid august now. Giving Greg a month or so. Tom thought about all the things you could do in a month. And all the things you couldn’t.</p>
<p>“I have some time left then,” Greg nodded, and Tom got the impression he was running through several things in his mind at once, only saying a few of them. And Tom didn’t blame him. He wasn’t sure <i>how</i> he’d react if their roles were reversed. Tom would be angry, probably, not nearly as calm as Greg appeared to be, at least on the surface.</p>
<p>“Yes,” Tom said, “Then, well, you know.”</p>
<p>“I’m basically a dead man.”</p>
<p>“If we can’t stop it,” Tom pointed out. He didn’t think they could, but he didn’t want <i>Greg</i> to think that.</p>
<p>“Then you’ll forgive me if I do this but I have to use my time wisely,” Greg said. He leaned over, took Tom’s face in his hands, and kissed him.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0025"><h2>25. Klimt, Gustav. The Kiss. 1907-08</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Greg learns about Tom's marriage and Tom talks about ghosts.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Kiss_(Klimt)#/media/File:The_Kiss_-_Gustav_Klimt_-_Google_Cultural_Institute.jpg">the kiss</a>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It took several moments for Tom to react to what Greg had just done. </p>
<p>“Oh fuck,” Greg said quickly, “Oh fuck, I’m so sorry. I just had this gust of bravery. We can pretend it didn’t happen.”</p>
<p>“Fuck no we’re not pretending it didn’t happen,” Tom said, and kissed him back. He was thankful for the dark, even though the moonlight was strong. He didn’t know if he’d have had the guts to kiss Greg in the daylight. And yes, that probably said something about his own confidence or whatever, but he didn’t even care. </p>
<p>“I just realized that this all probably means that your wife didn’t die,” Greg said when they pulled apart. Since Shiv wasn’t <i>actually</i> dead, he sometimes had to really focus to remember his story . Thankfully, Ewan and Marianne seemed to think it was a difficult subject for him to discuss, so they rarely brought her up, “Sorry about that. I mean, sorry about kissing you when you’re still married.”</p>
<p>“She hasn’t even been born yet,” Tom replied, “I think Marianne just kind of took the idea and ran with it. But we’re… not doing very well. Shiv and I. If that makes you feel any better about kissing a married man.”</p>
<p>“Oh,” Greg said, and Tom had no idea what was going through his head.</p>
<p>“I don’t know how to explain it to you. Sometimes I think it’s too modern for even me. It’d probably kill you,” Tom said, “I guess it’s complicated, for lack of a better word.”</p>
<p>“Well what is it?” Greg asked.</p>
<p>“We have an open marriage.”</p>
<p>“What does that mean?”</p>
<p>“That we can fuck other people,” Tom says bluntly. He knew he might as well say it to Greg, because he had no one else to talk to about it. It was far too much to talk about with his few friends, and it wasn’t like it was good friends with Shiv’s brothers. It was the first time he’d ever told anybody about their marriage agreement, and he only had to travel to 1860 to fucking find someone suitable enough to tell, “So that’s what we do. That’s what <i>she</i> does.”</p>
<p>“That happened to my mother,” Greg said, nodding as if he understood what Tom was saying, “Only it was just my father having a bunch of affairs until she found out about it. I don’t think she knew about it.”</p>
<p>“Oh,” it was Tom’s turn to be rendered mostly speechless, “that was the scandal?”</p>
<p>“It’d be one thing, I guess, if he’d had affairs with several women but it was several <i>men</i> and it <i>was</i> a bit of a scandal. As you can definitely probably imagine. Luckily enough scandals happen that it died down after a bit.”</p>
<p>“I see,” Tom swallowed, “Do you know why I’m telling you about my shitty fucking marriage? And about the agreement that my wife and I have.”</p>
<p>“No?”</p>
<p>Tom rolled his eyes. </p>
<p>“Oh!” Greg said suddenly, “Yes. I do. Did you- I mean, you want to?”</p>
<p>“Do I want to have sex with you?”</p>
<p>Even in the moonlight, Tom could see Greg blush. It wasn’t fair to torture the poor man. It wasn’t his fault he was a fucking Victorian. </p>
<p>“That’s not very polite Tom,” Greg said, “But yes. That’s- that’s what I was implying.”</p>
<p>“Yes,” Tom said, “I do.”</p>
<p>Tom felt like a teenager again, the way they practically raced up to the house, poking their heads down hallways to see if anyone was there. He hadn’t really done much sneaking around his parents when he’d still been in school, but he had to imagine it felt a bit like this. </p>
<p>Greg tripped, opening his door, and nearly took Tom down with him. </p>
<p>“Do you know what you’re doing?” Tom asked, fingers hovering on Greg’s top button.</p>
<p>“Actually,” Greg said, “I do.”</p>
<p>It wasn’t exactly surprising to Tom. Greg was a grown man after all, and they weren’t actually teenagers, but Greg hadn’t exactly seemed like he knew much about anything to do with romance or sex. </p>
<p>“Is that alright?” Greg asked, maybe seeing the change in Tom’s expression, “I mean-”</p>
<p>“Of course it’s alright,” Tom said, and kissed him, “Why wouldn’t it be alright? I’m fucking married.”</p>
<p>“I guess that’s a good point,” Greg said. Tom laughed, and the discussion was over.</p>
<p>When it was done, Tom thought, for the first time, that he might have fallen in love with Greg. He’d briefly considered it before, but had ignored it. Too much was at stake for Tom to do something stupid like fall in love. Even if Greg knew it all now, Tom wasn’t remotely confident that they could stop it from happening, which meant that Tom was not only falling in love with someone from another fucking century, but someone who was going to die--soon.</p>
<p>He decided this was the only time he’d allow himself to think about it. Back, somewhere hidden and secret inside his heart it would go, and he wouldn’t think about it anymore. </p>
<p>“Do you believe in ghosts Greg?” Tom asked. He was staring at the ceiling of the bedroom -- one he’d visited once before, in 1985, something he just realized. At this some point, he’d just started to accept the coincidences. It was better if he didn’t think too much about it. Especially after they’d just gotten done fucking. Now was not the time nor the place to try and figure out his weird fucking life.</p>
<p>“Ghosts?” Greg looked over at him, “Well, since I know time travel is possible, I suppose I might as well believe in them. The house is said to be haunted but I’ve never seen anything.”</p>
<p>“I think you were haunting me,” Tom said. </p>
<p>“I suppose it’s possible,” Greg replied casually, like Tom hadn’t just said something absurd.</p>
<p>“Ghosts stick around because they have unfinished business,” Tom said softly. It was hopelessly romantic to think that Greg stuck around as a ghost for a hundred and twenty years because he had unfinished business and that business was Tom. No one could like Tom that much. </p>
<p>Right?</p>
<p>“I mean,” Greg rolled over to face him, “If you were all alone, I think it would have made me upset. I wouldn’t want you to be alone. I don’t want you to be alone <i>now</i>.”</p>
<p>“I was fighting with Shiv. And her family doesn’t like me very much. I kept thinking how pathetic it was that I couldn’t make any living friends and even the ghost felt bad for me.”</p>
<p>Greg brushed a thumb across his cheek, brow furrowed, like he was thinking <i>incredibly</i> hard about something. Tom hated being this vulnerable with anyone. Once, he’d been able to talk to Shiv like this, but that had changed when they moved to New York, and were around her family more often. He always got the impression that they would find out, somehow, and use it against him. And even if they didn’t use it against him, he didn’t like it when the Roys made fun of him.</p>
<p>But they were far away. And even if they weren’t… he didn’t think Greg would be like that. He trusted Greg with a lot. </p>
<p>“If we can’t figure it out,” Greg began. They’d been carefully avoiding saying things like death, and dying, and instead using vague terms to refer to the fire, “And I do, you know. Will you go back?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to figure it out. There was this… humming sound you know? And I followed it into the woods. When I put my hands on the rock it threw me back here and I met your mother and grandfather. But every time I’ve been since, there’s been nothing. The only idea I have left is that it has to be the same day, which means I can’t get back until next year at the earliest.”</p>
<p>“You should go back,” Greg said, “You know. If it happens. You should go back to your wife.”</p>
<p>“You don’t get to boss me around, asshole.”</p>
<p>“I’m <i>not,</i>” Greg sighed, “I’m just saying that you should go back. If it’s me as a ghost or whatever the case may be, then I’ll let you know it’s me. Even though you already think so. It’s so strange to think that I knew you first, really.”</p>
<p>“It’s fucking pathetic to think that you were the only one who seemed to like being around me.”</p>
<p>“Well I like you,” Greg reasoned. He kissed Tom’s forehead gently, “So it makes quite a lot of sense if you think about it.”</p>
<p>“Have you liked me this whole Goddamn time?” Tom demanded, “Why the fuck didn’t you say anything sooner?”</p>
<p>“Well it is <i>illegal</i> Tom,” Greg pointed out, “That might be why. Or at least, a factor in it.”</p>
<p>“We wasted a lot of time,” Tom said, ignoring him, “We wasted so much time.”</p>
<p>“No, we didn’t <i>waste</i> it,” Greg reasoned, “Alright, maybe a little bit, but we won’t waste anymore. We’ll use the time… wisely.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0026"><h2>26. Hopper, Edward. Nighthawks. 1942</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Tom loses his hope slowly but surely and Greg doesn't seem to mind.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <a href="https://www.artic.edu/artworks/111628/nighthawks">nighthawks</a>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Tom and Greg-- though it was mostly Tom, with Greg tagging along, spent the next two weeks or so experimenting with changing the future. For the most part, Tom was guessing. He didn’t know any major historical events he could investigate, and even so, trying to stop a world event from happening could have irreparable damage in the future. There were some risks he couldn’t take.</p>
<p>Instead, he tried to mess with the staff, and their daily rituals. He knew it probably made him an annoying houseguest, but his logic, which he’d run by Greg twice, was that if Emma, for instance, decided on a Tuesday morning that that afternoon she was going to go into the town, her decision was made. It was a minor decision, without serious impacts, at least on the surface, but it would happen and that would be that. </p>
<p>But if Tom could <i>keep</i> her from going into town, then he was altering something from happening. Changing history, voluntarily. It seemed particularly dangerous, with a lot of room for error, but the truth was that Tom would never have forgiven himself if he set back and let history happen. He… cared about Greg, very much, and it would be impossible to just let things go the way they were meant to. Anybody would do the same, in his place. Human nature was largely the same, and he genuinely believed he wasn’t doing anything that people would find strange, presented with his exact situation. </p>
<p>Nothing worked. </p>
<p>People used other exits when Tom blocked their path. Tom even snuck out in the middle of the night and swiped several vegetables from the garden that the cook was going to use to make soup the next day, only to discover that he’d somehow missed them all, and she had more than enough. Weather changed on a dime, and Tom was slowly but surely losing hope in the idea that he could have an impact on even the most mundane things. If he couldn’t keep one of the maids from cleaning a rug, how was he going to keep an entire man alive? He felt like some insane scientist who’s master plan was slipping through his fingers. </p>
<p>“But haven’t I already changed history?” Tom asked. It was late now, and he was sitting at Greg’s desk, while Greg sat at the foot of the bed, listening politely. He was humoring him, Tom knew, but he didn’t care, “I mean, just by being here?”</p>
<p>“In theory?” Greg replied, “Look, I <i>really</i> don’t understand it all.”</p>
<p>“You’re just going to accept that you might die?”</p>
<p>“I mean,” Greg frowned, and looked at his hands in his lap, “I’m going to die anyways. Way before you’re even born. So, I guess so.”</p>
<p>“Jesus fuck Greg.”</p>
<p>“I think you’re mad that you can’t keep me from dying but it’s not your fault,” Greg said slowly, and Tom wondered how long he’d been stewing on <i>this</i> one, “But I’m going to die anyways. And if you hadn’t come back, I would have never known. I’d be, just, a name in a book or something.”</p>
<p>Tom stood up, and, even though he wanted to grab Greg by the shoulders and try and shake some sense into him, or shout at him to maybe give a shit about something for once, he decided not to. It wasn’t going to do any good. Greg wouldn’t listen.</p>
<p>“I’m going to get some air,” he said instead, turned on his heel and stepped out into the hall. It took all of thirty seconds or so for Greg to open the door and tug him back inside. He hadn’t even gotten very far. </p>
<p>“Don’t be dramatic,” Greg said, and pulled Tom very tightly against him, “I’m sorry. It’s not a bad thing that you care if I die. I’m trying to cope I guess too.”</p>
<p>Tom didn’t reply. Mostly, because he thought that if he opened his mouth he was going to burst into tears and he was not going to let Greg see all of that. </p>
<p>If Greg could tell-- and maybe he could, but the slight shaking of Tom’s shoulders-- he made no comment, just slid one hand under Tom’s jacket, so his skin was only separated from Tom’s by a single layer. It was extremely comforting. Shiv didn’t like this sort of thing, not really. He wasn’t used to someone not minding how much he touched them. In fact, Greg was even more touchy-feely than Tom was. He clung to Tom when he slept like a fucking koala and had recently been so bold as to put a hand on Tom’s knee under the table. It had sent him into a small state of shock the first few times, but now he found he craved it. </p>
<p>“I’d never blame you, you know,” Greg said softly. Even though it was only the two of them, Greg was whispering like they might be overheard, “If you couldn’t figure it out. I wouldn’t haunt you because I was upset with you. I think it’s great you even tried.”</p>
<p>“You should blame me,” Tom said, though his words were a little muffled by Greg’s shoulder, “I can’t fuck this up too.”</p>
<p>“Don’t be stupid,” Greg replied, firmly, “Look, we tried. <i>You</i> tried. But I think we should give up.”</p>
<p>“Greg-”</p>
<p>“Shh,” Greg cut him off, “It’s better this way. To just focus on us, for a little bit. I just want to take you out for a stroll and hold you at night and be with you until I can’t anymore. We can talk about it all later, when it gets closer. But will you do that for me Tom?”</p>
<p>“Sure,” Tom said, pulling back a bit, “I will. At least when you can hear me. And what did you have in mind for us Mr. Hirsch? If I may be so bold as to ask.”</p>
<p>Greg chuckled, and brushed a thumb across Tom’s cheek softly, “Well first I thought we might do this.”</p>
<p>And then he pressed their lips together gently. Tom couldn’t help but chuckle a bit and Greg’s idiocy. But it did make him feel better, even if it was just a little bit. </p>
<p>“I guess I can allow this,” Tom admitted, “What next?”</p>
<p>Greg smirked and Tom forgot, for just that moment, all about the looming deadline.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0027"><h2>27. Degas, Edgar. The Star (Dancer on Stage). 1878</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Ewan says something out of place, and Tom comes to a realization.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <a href="https://www.wikiart.org/en/edgar-degas/the-star-dancer-on-stage">the star</a>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“You married a man you shouldn’t have Marianne, one I warned you against a thousand times before you walked down the altar. You never listened to me, and it’s suddenly my fault that your husband is running around making an ass of himself?” Ewan shook his head, “I don’t know what you want me to do about it,” Ewan waved around the letter, as if to illustrate his point. </p>
<p>They had been going at it ever since tea had started that afternoon, but this was the first time either of them had actually mentioned what the argument was about and Tom didn’t have to keep trying to figure it out. Tom glanced at Marianne, but whatever anger she must have been feeling didn’t show on her face. Maybe she’d had a lot of practice.</p>
<p>And Tom knew he wasn’t supposed to hear this-- it was one of those family arguments and Tom was far from family, but when he made to leave them, Marianne put up a hand to stop him.</p>
<p>“Please finish your tea Mr. Wambsgans. My father and I are just having a disagreement. It’s nothing to worry about in the slightest. Do enjoy your drink and don’t mind us.”</p>
<p>Having seen Logan and his children go head to head several times, the argument was not a new one. He had seen how nasty Logan could be and it was, evidently, hereditary. Tom looked down at his now lukewarm tea. Maybe Greg would be more equipped to deal with this, but Greg was still in the kitchens and Tom desperately wished to be there with him.</p>
<p>But, not wanting to upset Marianne further, he remained in his seat. Evidently he was considered close enough to the family to be allowed to hear these sorts of arguments. It made him feel a little… warm inside, even though it wasn’t exactly a great situation.</p>
<p>“What my <i>husband</i>,” the word leaked venom and it was clear she did not have any lingering love for the man, and the marriage they once had, “does, no longer concerns me. I’ve distanced myself from him as much as I can.”</p>
<p>“Your son has his name and his face. You think you’re truly managed to escape him?” Ewan shook his head and sighed, “When I get letters like this about his <i>exploits</i> in London, you think it doesn't affect you? The only reason he’s not locked up somewhere is because he has money and friends in high places. You know that as well as I do Marianne.”</p>
<p>“I <i>do</i> think that,” Marianne said firmly, “And I’ve said it to you before that he no longer impacts my life. I’m a grown woman and can take care of myself. What Samuel does no longer concerns me.”</p>
<p>“Your marriage went down like the damn Titanic Marianne, I don’t know why you won’t admit to it and give me some peace for once.”</p>
<p>He stood up, clearly pleased with his point, and Marianne watched him go. Tom wanted to say something to comfort her. She’d been nothing but kind to him, but Ewan’s words were echoing in his mind. So far as Tom was aware, the Titanic didn’t go down until 1912. The phrase was common enough, sure, but not fifty two years before it even happened. </p>
<p>If Ewan said it then Ewan had to <i>know</i> about the Titanic sinking in the first place, and if Ewan knew about the Titanic…well  maybe there was a reason he’d eyed Tom so suspiciously. Why he hadn’t asked <i>that</i> many questions. Ewan was like Tom. Thrown backwards out of his own time. Tom suddenly felt very warm, felt like he had just been told something horrible and now had to cope with it. It wasn’t even that horrible, it was just… unexpected. </p>
<p>“Don’t worry about it Mr. Wambsgans,” Marianne said, returning to her newspaper and tea and her chipper attitude. There was an underlying poison to her tone though, and she glared in the direction Ewan had left. She might have been happy on the surface, but Tom had to remember that she too, was a Roy, and they could be <i>fierce</i>, “My father and I are both strong headed, so we clash sometimes. We’ll be alright by this evening.”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry about your husband Marianne,” Tom replied, though he wasn't sure she wanted his sympathy, or wanted him to know much about it. </p>
<p>“Greg told you, then?”</p>
<p>“Some. A bit. I didn’t want to pry, you know? I felt that it was your business.”</p>
<p>She shrugged, “Such is life.”</p>
<p>He didn’t think she knew about Ewan’s secret, though there’d been no confusion at her father’s reference to a ship that wasn’t going to sink until the next century. But if Marianne did know, Tom thought she’d have made that known. He got the impression that Ewan probably kept that fact from his family. And though Tom thought the way Ewan spoke to his daughter was inexcusable, he couldn’t blame the man for keeping it a secret. </p>
<p>“Would you excuse me for a bit?” he asked, “I need to take care of something.”</p>
<p>She nodded, probably glad to have a moment alone with her thoughts and her anger. He didn’t know where, exactly, he’d find Ewan, but there were a thousand things he needed to ask him, so he decided he'd start with the study.</p>
<p>It all made perfect sense. Ewan’s words were the final puzzle piece of the past few months. Of the strange looks and the general distrust in his eyes. Maybe Tom could have figured it out, or at least considered it, if he’d given it enough thought but he hadn’t. And in all likelihood. Ewan was probably bracing for him. He was fairly certain Ewan was indifferent to him, at best, and outright disliked him at worst. </p>
<p>Would he tell Ewan about what was going to happen to Greg? If anybody were to understand it, Ewan would. But no matter what sort of a person Ewan was, Greg was still his grandson. That wasn’t a good piece of information to drop on an old man. </p>
<p>He knocked on the study door, but didn’t wait for an answer before pushing it open and slipping inside. </p>
<p>“I expected I’d see you,” Ewan said, without turning from the fireplace to look at him. Though he couldn’t have expected anybody but Tom, it still was unnerving that Ewan knew it was him, “Come in, I suppose.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0028"><h2>28. Gerome, Jean-Leon. A Chat by the Fireside. 1881</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Ewan tells a story.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <a href="https://artsandculture.google.com/asset/a-chat-by-the-fireside-jean-l%C3%A9on-g%C3%A9r%C3%B4me/SgEyi7wuKc0W0w">a chat by the fireside</a>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“You knew. You had to have known,” Tom sat down in the chair across from Ewan. The fire cracked and popped in the fireplace, and Ewan did not meet his eye, “About me. Because you’re like me. From the future. I don’t know how you knew about me, but you’ve known all along. ”</p>
<p>“What year did you come from?” Ewan asked, as if this was a normal question to ask someone. </p>
<p>“1985.”</p>
<p>He nodded absentmindedly. Tom leaned forward in his chair, hoping Ewan might deign to tell him more. But why had he kept his mouth shut for so long? What did he gain from that? </p>
<p>“You don’t see how I knew? Are you an idiot?” Ewan asked, “You show up in the middle of my woods in fucking blue jeans? How could I not know? You did a terrible job of hiding it.”</p>
<p>“How did you end up here?”</p>
<p>“In this house? It wasn’t so old as it is for you when we first came here. We played new money, I suppose might be a more modern term for it. The owners were old and didn’t ask too many questions. You thought that house had been in our family for over a century and that’s true, technically. The old owners are dead and now it’s mine. It’s a family house, for all intents and purposes. It goes to Marianne when I die, and so on and so forth until it reaches the Roys you know.”</p>
<p>Tom shook his head, “I don’t get it. What about Marianne and Greg? Do they know?”</p>
<p>Ewan closed his eyes and shook his head slowly, “They’d never believe me even if I told them. Especially not Marianne. She’s happy here. I don’t want to shatter that. I love my daughter Tom, I’m not a heartless monster.”</p>
<p>“Greg’s going to die,” Tom said suddenly, “In just a little bit. We have to do something. I saw his name in the bible. His first name was smudged, but he told me his middle name, and that’s the name that I saw.”</p>
<p>Ewan sighed, “I know.”</p>
<p>“You <i>know?</i> How the fuck do you know?”</p>
<p>“I saw it. When I was back in my original time I saw the family bible and thought nothing of it, except I remember thinking that the handwriting looked familiar. I was a young man myself, and it was before you were probably born. I didn’t put it together until Marianne and her useless husband presented me with their new baby boy. Gregory Samuel Hirsch. He’s the only one with the  middle name of Samuel in the whole family. I certainly tried to get her to change the name, to try and trick history, but she’s stubborn. I sent him away a hundred times, hoping it would stick but it never has. And since you saw it written in the family bible too-- in my handwriting no less, I can see I’ve failed.”</p>
<p>“Well why the fuck did you keep this to yourself?” Tom stood up, an anger he thought he’d lost surging up in him, “I’ve been stuck a hundred and twenty fucking years away from my home and my family and you knew this whole fucking time? Why? Do you get your kicks torturing people?”</p>
<p>“I thought you could save him,” Ewan frowned, “Besides, anything that inconcinves Logan makes my day.”</p>
<p>“Logan is-”</p>
<p>“My brother, yes. He left, when Rose died. I don’t know. We were just teenagers really, if I think about it. It was incredibly thrilling to have this power. We could bounce back and forth practically at will. But when Rose died we fought. We blamed each other and we blame ourselves. Logan went back to our time and never came back. I stayed here. We will probably never see or speak to each other again, and I tend to think we’re both alright with that. I see he’s figured out some way to get the house. Maybe neither Rose or I have any descendants in your time.”</p>
<p>“It was really shitty of you not to tell me in all this fucking time,” Tom crossed his arms, “You know that right?”</p>
<p>Ewan shrugged noncommittally, “I thought you could save him. Evidently that was misplaced. If you take him with you to the woods, you’ll be able to get home.”</p>
<p>“What do you need?”</p>
<p>“It needs one of us. Marianne, myself. Rose’s children. Anybody with our blood to get it going. I don’t understand it. I think maybe an ancestor was involved. That might be why the Roys we met when we first came here accepted us. Maybe they were from the future as well. If you take him with you, you shouldn’t have an issue getting home.”</p>
<p>There was something, Tom realized then, different about the night he’d come back in time and every other time he’d tried. Marianne and Ewan were walking nearby. </p>
<p>“I’m finding a way to keep that fucking man alive,” Tom said and turned on his heel. He paused halfway out of the room and turned around, “I’m not going back.”</p>
<p>Ewan chuckled, “Sure you’re not. Your wife won’t have missed you when you do. I assume you’re not a widower. She’s still alive, just in your time. Not much time will have passed at all, you’ll find. Time passes differently on this side than it does on the other side.”</p>
<p>“I’m not <i>going</i> back.”</p>
<p>“We’ll see. Are you storming out? You’re not doing a very good job of it.”</p>
<p>Tom opened his mouth to reply, but Ewan had already returned to staring into the fire and Tom realized he’d already lost this match. </p>
<p> “Greg’s death will shatter her,” Tom said, “You understand that right?”</p>
<p>“Why do you think I tried so hard to stop it? I’m tired of this conversation.”</p>
<p>“I already told him.”</p>
<p>Ewan waved a hand dismissively. Tom wasn’t sure what to make of it or what Ewan’s opinion of that was, “Don’t tell Marianne though. Let her have her last weeks with her son. He’s the only good thing that man ever gave her.”</p>
<p>“You didn’t try hard enough to stop it clearly,” Tom said. He knew he should have quit while he was ahead. What did he gain from arguing with an old man?</p>
<p>“History wants to happen,” Ewan said simply, “You are not meant to be here. Therefore, your actions do little to stop what is supposed to happen. Greg is supposed to die later this month. History will make sure it happens, no matter what you tell him. It’s the same with everything else here. You’re a blip in time for the universe. I have spent that boy’s entire life trying to keep him from meeting his fate on September 20th, 1860. I have given him money and put him on a boat to the States, Canada. I tried to marry him off a hundred times but he always comes back. I think it’s set in stone.”</p>
<p>“Nothing’s set in stone,” Tom shook his head, “There has to be a way.”</p>
<p>“My God you’re stubborn to be around. How does your wife put up with it?”</p>
<p>“We’re not really doing all that great.”</p>
<p>Ewan chuckled again, “I see.”</p>
<p>“Now that he knows, he can stop it,” Tom said, “He has to.”</p>
<p>“I didn’t think I’d ever say this to you, but I hope you’re right.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0029"><h2>29. David, Jacques-Louis. The Oath of the Horatii. 1784</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Tom tells Greg some news and Greg makes an executive decision.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oath_of_the_Horatii#/media/File:Jacques-Louis_David,_Le_Serment_des_Horaces.jpg">the oath of the horatii painting</a>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oath_of_the_Horatii">wiki with painting context!</a></p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Tom kept his word and didn’t tell Greg about his grandfather. </p>
<p>He didn’t see what kind of good it would do anyway. </p>
<p>What he <i>did</i> share, was the way he could get home. He wasn’t sure why, exactly, he told him, but it felt wrong to keep that from him. It was an important piece of information. But even so, he waited several days. They’d been good, and hadn’t discussed Greg's death. Tom had made Greg a promise anyways, to savor the time they had left, but eventually, when time was really running out, he figured he might as well share it. </p>
<p>It was late now, and he had his head on Greg’s chest, the covers pulled up on both of them. The nights were getting much colder.</p>
<p>“So how <i>do</i> you get back?” Greg asked.</p>
<p>“The only difference between the night I came back, and all the times I’ve tried, is that your mother and grandfather were taking a walk nearby. I <i>think</i> someone from your family needs to be nearby. You or Marianne, or something like that. It’s the only explanation. Perhaps anybody from your time would work, but I don’t know.”</p>
<p>Greg hadn’t responded. </p>
<p>“I’m not going back,” Tom said firmly.</p>
<p>“You’re so stubborn,” Greg chuckled and kissed the top of his head, “Goodnight.”</p>
<p>“Goodnight.”</p>
<p>In the morning, Greg was… distant. They dressed, and ate their breakfast, and drank their tea, but it was clear that something was on Greg’s mind. He was, Tom thought, probably preoccupied with his impending date.</p>
<p>“I’m not going back,” Tom said firmly, finishing off his tea, “If that’s what you’re thinking about.”</p>
<p>“I’ll be right back,” Greg said, “Then we can go for a morning walk. How does that sound?”</p>
<p>“It sounds nice,” Tom replied, wary, but slightly reassured. Greg sounded a bit normal again, and when he returned, after another twenty minutes or so with a bag tucked under his arm, Tom stood.</p>
<p>“What’s that?” Tom nodded towards the bag.</p>
<p>“I’ll tell you in a bit,” Greg said, and took his arm, “Come with me.”</p>
<p>Tom let Greg have this, whatever it was, and they trekked outside into the late morning mist. It was maybe eleven or so, and the tea was sitting warm in his stomach. Wherever Greg was taking him, he was determined. </p>
<p>“Where <i>are</i> we going?” Tom asked, but Greg made no reply. Tom thought he looked almost sad, about something, “Greg?”</p>
<p>His surroundings were starting to grow familiar, and by the time they made it to the lake, so was the familiar faint buzzing sound. </p>
<p>“Oh no,” Tom said, “I already told you I’m not fucking going back. You can just turn right around and go back up to the house.”</p>
<p>“Come on and lead the way,” Greg said softly, and slipped his hand into Tom’s, “For me?”</p>
<p>Unhappy, but not willing to go against Greg’s soft tone and sad eyes, Tom led Greg into the trees, his feet more than familiar with the way. He’d made this trek so many times, desperate to get home, and now that he could, now that home just a single touch away, he didn’t want to go. So much had changed. How could Tom go back to 1985 as the same person who had left?</p>
<p>“This is it?” Greg asked, nodding at the stone, “That’s an annoying noise.”</p>
<p>“This is it. You’ve seen it, now let’s go back home.”</p>
<p>“Tom,” Greg frowned, “ No one can say that we didn’t try. But I can’t- I can’t keep you here. Not from your wife, and family, and the life you have in 1985. If I’m to die in three days, then I’m to die in three days. It’s already your past, Tom.”</p>
<p>“I don’t want you to die.”</p>
<p>“It’s alright. I mean it’s not but we’ve all got to die. But <i>you’re</i> going back home.”</p>
<p>“Greg-”</p>
<p>“No. I’m not budging. I’m serious. We can stand here all day. I know you’re staying here because of me. But I can't die with that on my conscience. Keeping you from your time, from the place you’re <i>meant</i> to be has got to be a strike in the negative for me. I can’t afford all that many negatives in the afterlife Tom.”</p>
<p>Tom took his hand and pressed a kiss to it softly, “You have to swear to me that you’ll try. You’ll keep a fucking bucket of water next to you or something. You have to try Greg. You have to stop letting things happen to you. Will you promise me that?”</p>
<p>Greg nodded. </p>
<p>“I could stay,” Tom muttered, glanced first at the rock, and the back at Greg, “No matter what happens, I could stay. I <i>would</i> stay.”</p>
<p>“You could but you’re not going to. If I’m going to die, you’re not going to see it.”</p>
<p>“What if you don’t? What if you managed to change it and I’m stuck in the future.”</p>
<p>“Well you’ll be able to see it. There’s a family bible, there’s a family cemetery. You’ll know if I lived. But you have to promise me that you won’t come back so long as you have responsibilities back at your home. It’s not fair to the people in your life for you to disappear forever.” </p>
<p>“Like Shiv?”</p>
<p>“Yes,” Greg smiled, “Like Shiv. So long as you have a wife, and a family. If you were to have children or anything, you would have to stay. You know that right? You have a place in 1985. When and <i>if</i> that changes-”</p>
<p>“What’s today? September 18th?”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“Then,” Tom smiled, “I expect you here on the eighteenth of September, 1861. Noon. Not a minute later.”</p>
<p>Greg smiled, but even Tom could read the sadness in his eyes. Greg thought he was going to die. And even if he didn’t, he never expected to see Tom again. He firmly expected this to be the last conversation that they ever had.</p>
<p>“You can’t make your marriage fail because of me,” Greg said, like he’d just realized the loophole and needed to close it before Tom figured it out, “Don’t make your wife hate you. In fact, don’t even look, Tom, to see what happened. In three days or so, maybe the bible will say different and maybe it will say the same. But you can’t look. You’ll obsess over it. I’m going to be dead by 1985 no matter what. I’ll be dead one way or the other. By then it won’t matter so it doesn’t matter to you what the year says. You’re not even going to look so long as you have a place in your time. I can’t, in good faith, be with you now, when you have a life there that I am keeping you from.”</p>
<p>“You think you know me don’t you?”</p>
<p>Greg laughed and kissed the top of his head, “Don’t pout.”</p>
<p>“I promise.”</p>
<p>“Good,” Greg smiled tightly. Some of the sadness had left his face, though he still looked distinctly distraught, “You’ll go home?”</p>
<p>“Yes. I don’t have another choice evidently. You’re too fucking stubborn.”</p>
<p>“Oh <i>I’m</i> stubborn? That’s rich Tom.”</p>
<p>Tom sighed, “You shouldn't have to wait for me either. <i>When</i> you don’t die, because you know damn well about this fire and can figure out how not to burn to death, I’ll see you a year from now. Or two. Or I won’t see you. Maybe you’ll run off to America with some pretty London boy. But maybe not for a little bit now. I’d wait until 1865 or so. That war is going to last a bit.”</p>
<p>“What war?” Greg cocked his head.</p>
<p>Tom laughed, “Sorry. It hasn’t started yet. Next year. My point stands Gregory, don’t get me off topic. I’m saying that whatever happens with my marriage is unrelated to you. Don’t wait for me. Alright? It’s not fair to you. Now you have to promise me. If we <i>happen</i> to be here at the same time, that’s one thing. But just like I’m promising you to try, you have to try as well.”</p>
<p>“Promise.”</p>
<p>Greg let go of him and picked up the bag he brought, “I have your clothes. I found them in my grandfather’s room. I don’t know why he kept them, but I don’t imagine you want to show up in your time dressed like this. So I’ll turn and you can get dressed.”</p>
<p>He held out the neatly folded jeans and shirt, in one hand, the jacket folded over his arm.</p>
<p>“It’s nothing you haven’t seen,” Tom said, taking the pile, “Didn’t take you for shy.”</p>
<p>“It’s one thing in the privacy of a bedroom Tom,” Greg turned around, “It’s another thing to watch someone change. That’s not very polite.”</p>
<p>“I don’t get why you’re making me leave,” Tom said, sliding into his jeans for the first time in months, “why can’t I stay here?”</p>
<p>“Because you don’t belong here. I don’t know what kind of a marriage you and Shiv have but just because I’m alive a hundred years before she’s even born doesn’t mean I’ll be your mistress.”</p>
<p>“It’s not like that,” Tom pulled on his sweater, “Maybe if I’m here when the fire happens then I can help. Something happens that gets you distracted or something. You’re not a child. It shouldn’t kill you.”</p>
<p>“Stop trying to come up with reasons to stay,” Greg said, and Tom watched him cross his arms, “I’m not budging.”</p>
<p>“You can turn around,” Tom said, “I’m decent.”</p>
<p>Greg sighed and turned. He had a determined look about him, which Tom didn’t like because it meant he couldn’t be talked out of it. Tom was stubborn, that was true, but Tom had almost met his match in stubbornness in one Greg Hirsch.</p>
<p>“Well that’s that then,” Greg said, “Oh, I almost forgot.”</p>
<p>Greg dug around in his pocket, and pulled out a locket on a chain.</p>
<p>“This is for you,” Greg said, pressing it into Tom’s hand. It was bright gold, and probably, Tom thought, real gold. It was oval shaped with what looked like rubies inlaid in a circle shape, “My father gave it to my mother when they were still courting. She hopes I’ll give it to my future fiancée, but I want you to have it.”</p>
<p>Tom felt the weight of the locket and chain in his hand, and then tucked it away into his jacket pocket. </p>
<p>“I don’t have anything to give to you,” Tom said. </p>
<p>“You don’t have to give me anything,” Greg kissed him, lightly, then sighed, “You’ve already given me everything.”</p>
<p>“Don’t die,” Tom said. He took Greg’s face in his hands and kissed him, “Alright? Don’t die. Don’t die because I’m coming back and if you’re fucking dead, Greg, I swear to God I’ll never forgive you.”</p>
<p>Greg laughed, “I’ll do what I can.”</p>
<p>“Greg?”</p>
<p>“Yes?”</p>
<p>“I promise I won’t look. But you have to promise to still be here when I come back. This is where I belong. You know it.”</p>
<p>It looked like the words were enough to cause Greg to waver a bit, but he held firm and nodded.</p>
<p>“I promise,” Greg smiled, and kissed him, “Go on now.”</p>
<p>He smiled tightly, “See you in a bit.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0030"><h2>30. Grimshaw, John Atkinson. The Lady of Shalott. 1878</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Tom tries to reconcile his two lives.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <a href="https://www.wikiart.org/en/john-atkinson-grimshaw/the-lady-of-shalott-1878">the lady of shalott</a>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Tom opened his eyes, the sun was gone, replaced by the inky black of the night he’d left. If Tom hadn’t been holding Greg’s locket in his hands, hadn’t still felt the ghost of Greg’s lips on his own, he would have thought it all an insane dream. </p>
<p>The buzzing continued. Tom stood, debating saying <i>fuck it</i> and going back. But Greg was right. Even if his marriage failed, Tom couldn’t abandon his parents. Couldn’t up and leave his job and his life. Shiv didn’t deserve that. </p>
<p>He waited for the buzzing to fade. It took several minutes. Greg was standing right there, a century ago, doing just the same thing. But soon the buzzing stopped. Greg had gone back to the house, to come up with an excuse as to why Tom left without saying goodbye or something. Tom slipped the locket around his neck and tucked it safely under his shirt. He pressed down a sob as he did so. </p>
<p>Up to the house he went, dragging his feet as much as he physically could. </p>
<p>The house felt… different, even though really not much had changed in the house besides the modern features. He felt like he’d been gone a hundred years-- and in a way he <i>had</i> but by the clock in the front hall, it had only been about half an hour, and most of that time he’d spent sitting by the lake.</p>
<p>He went up to the bedroom. To his surprise, Shiv was curled up on the bed, hair still damp from her shower, flipping through some papers. She looked up.</p>
<p>“Hey,” she said, and frowned, “Are you alright?”</p>
<p>“Just a long night,” he went around to the other side of the bed and kissed her. She made a quiet noise of surprise.</p>
<p>“Are you sure you’re alright?” she asked, “You know Ken and Rome were just-”</p>
<p>Tom held up a hand, “I promise I’m over it. I’m going to take a shower.”</p>
<p>It was strange that <i>this</i> felt like the dream. That the shower seemed out of place, and the space heater Shiv had to ward off the cold was odd. He had to get it together. Otherwise Shiv would think something was wrong, and there was no way that Tom could explain this to her, even if she would believe it. It was insane. </p>
<p>The only person here who would believe him, was Logan. </p>
<p>He let out a little laugh at the idea of talking to Logan about time travel. </p>
<p>“Are you sure you’re alright Tom?” Shiv called, knocking on the door, “Do you feel okay?”</p>
<p>“I’m fine honey,” He called back, “Honest. Just tired.”</p>
<p>It wasn’t even that much of a lie. He was <i>fine</i> really. There was an ache in his chest, yes, and it was distinctly Greg shaped, but he tried to be optimistic, that he’d somehow made an impact on Greg’s future. Really he <i>had</i> to be fine. He couldn’t lose his shit. Not only would he be unable to explain it to anyone, but Greg was, technically, dead anyway. That was life. The wheel fucking turned on. It was the way things worked. He couldn’t do anything about it now anyway. No matter how desperate he was to know if Greg would make it past this year. </p>
<p>Well, <i>his</i> year.</p>
<p>“If you’re sure,” she said, and left him to shower. The hot water was nice-- he hadn’t hated the inconveniences of 1860, that was true, once he’d gotten used to them, but the hot shower <i>was</i> a perk of modern times. </p>
<p>He tried not to think about Greg, tried not to think about what he was doing now. If Tom were to go back, when would it be? Would it have only been a half hour since he left? Or would Tom arrive only half an hour later than his original arrival? He should have asked Ewan. But he didn’t. He had to hope that the days would match up. That if he went back next year, or whatever year, on September 18th, it would <i>be</i> September 18th. </p>
<p>Though, he smiled to himself, he didn’t think he’d mind waiting for Greg again. He didn’t think he’d have the <i>patience</i> but he’d wait for Greg to catch up if he had to. It wouldn’t be so bad. </p>
<p>That was, of course, if he and Shiv couldn’t work things out. Couples counseling would help. He was pretty confident in that, but sometimes things couldn’t be saved. It wasn’t even that he wanted his marriage to fail because he <i>did</i> love Shiv. She was the first person he had ever loved, and he wouldn’t have asked her to marry him in the first place if he didn’t love her. But sometimes he didn’t think she loved him. Not in the way he wanted her to. </p>
<p>And it wasn’t like Greg was some backup plan. You could love two people, two vastly different people. If Shiv, his <i>wife</i> who he had promised to love till death do you part, had to come first. He had to try his damndest to make things work. And even if they didn’t work out, he’d go back home to his parents. His father’s heath had been failing for several years now, and in all likelihood he had maybe another year left. He would stay for them, even if he didn’t stay for Shiv, no matter how long.</p>
<p>Goddamnit, Greg had been right. They couldn’t, in good faith, be whatever they were going to be while Tom had a life here.</p>
<p>He shut the water off, and got ready for bed. Shiv had already turned off the light when he got back into bed. Silently, he pulled her against him, a routine they sometimes shared. </p>
<p>“Did you end up having a nice walk?” she asked quietly. Outside, he thought he heard the rain start back up again. He wondered about Greg, wondered about the ghosts, about what exactly he was supposed to do now. </p>
<p>“Oh sure,” he said, “It was nice. It’s a beautiful property.”</p>
<p>“Mm,” she replied noncommittally, “Look I am sorry about my brothers at dinner. You know they’re just teasing you right. It’s just the way we operate.”</p>
<p>“Shiv, I’m serious. I’m over it. It feels like a lifetime ago.”</p>
<p>She glanced up at him, but finding his face hard to read shrugged, and decided to settle in to go to sleep.</p>
<p>Tom didn’t sleep much that night.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0031"><h2>31. Dali, Salvador. The Persistence of Memory. 1931</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Tom tries to break a promise and someone tries to stop him.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Persistence_of_Memory#/media/File:The_Persistence_of_Memory.jpg">the persistence of memory</a>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Gently, Tom touched the locket around his neck. He knew he couldn’t hide it from Shiv forever, but it was unlikely they’d be getting close enough for her to see it while they were here still, so he’d been wearing it since, taking it off only to shower. </p>
<p>It felt like an incredibly intimate gift. Like a… proposal of some sort.</p>
<p>He was dying to go and look at the bible. He really didn’t have a single clue if he had successfully saved Greg from his original fate. He liked to think he could have, but Ewan had seemed adamant about history happening as it was meant to. And Ewan knew more about it all than Tom did.</p>
<p>Tom figured that if he snuck down to the library, just to take a peek, Greg would be none the wiser. He wasn’t <i>certain</i> that the ghost was Greg-- it was more than likely, but how could Tom know for sure? </p>
<p>Actually, it was most like he was making excuses for being allowed to break his promise. What would Greg do if he snuck into the library, and looked in the bible. Nothing. He was dead. He would be dead by 1985 anyway, he’d been right about that. </p>
<p>So that is what Tom did. He made his way down to the library several days after he returned-- when September 20th would have passed in 1860-- which was, mercifully, empty. Willa seemed to have found another place to loiter, and Tom went to the back, under the painting, and opened it to the first few pages.</p>
<p>The bible slammed shut. With much more force than Tom had expected. Like someone had pressed down on the cover and likely would have caught his hands in it if he hadn’t ripped them away.</p>
<p>“I know I promised,” Tom said, “But I didn’t actually think you’d be able to stop me.”<br/>The light next to the Lear painting flickered angrily. Tom couldn’t help but smile since he had the distinct impression that Greg was trying to shout at him about breaking his promise. If he knew about Greg… well he probably wouldn’t try to save his marriage as hard as he should. And Greg wouldn’t be happy about that one bit. </p>
<p>“Fine,” he took a step back to prove his point, “I’ll behave. You dickhead.”</p>
<p>The light stopped flickering, and he figured Greg believed him. And that was good because Tom <i>was</i> telling the truth. He had promised Greg that he wouldn’t throw his marriage away and he had <i>also</i> promised he wouldn’t look at anything like this. But Jesus Christ, a year ago he’d have probably had himself institutionalized for thinking he might one day be taking orders from a fuckig ghost he’d fallen in love with a century ago.</p>
<p>“I’m not going to be happy about it though so,” Tom said, “Fuck you.”</p>
<p>“Hey Wambsgans, what are you doing here?” Roman asked. Tom didn’t think he had ever seen Roman in a library before or even with a book. It was likely that he was coming in here because he’d seen Tom come in here. He braced himself for whatever Roman was going to say. </p>
<p>Tom turned, “Nothing. </p>
<p>“You talking to the ghosts again?” Roman said, jumping to sit on the table which creaked. It was probably too old for anybody to sit on it, “No offense, but I think you might be insane.”</p>
<p>“I was talking to myself,” Tom replied. He didn’t mind the Roys so much anymore. He and Shiv had a marriage counseling appointment, which he would try his best in. Greg had made him promise to try. And he wasn’t going to let himself be bothered by the Roy brothers anymore. It wasn’t worth it, “I don’t believe in ghosts.”</p>
<p>“I’m glad to hear you’re not a fucking toddler,” Roman flipped open one of the books on the table and made a face at it, “That’d be pretty weird.”</p>
<p>“If I was a toddler?” he frowned, “Yes. It would. Where’s Shiv?”</p>
<p>“She’s your wife dude,” Rom made a face, “Isn’t she?”</p>
<p>“She told you about the counseling?” Tom couldn’t help but wince a bit. He wasn’t going to be bothered by them, but he didn’t want Roman knowing all their marital affairs. </p>
<p>“She told <i>everybody,</i>” Roman smirked, “You know, Dad tried marriage counseling with our mom a year or two before the divorce. I think it was just divorce foreplay. I’m sure that won’t happen to you though. You two are solid or whatever dumb shit you said in your vows.”</p>
<p>“Do you say things to make me feel shittier?”</p>
<p>“Why? Is it working?” He smiled up at Tom, clearly proud of himself. </p>
<p>The book Roman had opened flew off of the table, much like, Tom thought, someone had swept it across the wood and onto the ground. Both of them watched it slide across the table and land several feet away, face down, on the floor. It was a book of plays, and Tom figured it was probably Willa’s, left behind one evening. Tom bent down to pick it up and return it to the table where it stayed still. They watched it for a moment, but it did not go flying off the table again.</p>
<p>“That was weird,” Roman said, a hint of wariness in his voice. He eyed Tom, like Tom had some kind of telekinetic powers he didn’t know about, and could make books go flying around untouched. . </p>
<p>“Yes it was,” Tom suppressed a smirk, “I’m sure it wasn’t the ghost. Probably just the wind.”</p>
<p>“Whatever,” Roman glanced around, and hopped off the table. He sauntered out, and Tom chuckled. </p>
<p>“He’s not that bad,” Tom said, “But thanks. You don’t have to play white knight though. I can take care of myself.”</p>
<p>Tom felt an almost… <i>affectionate</i> gust of air.</p>
<p>“But thanks. Guess I’m pretty shitty unfinished business.”</p>
<p>He felt an affectionate brush of air on his cheek again. It didn’t take much to imagine Greg brushing a thumb across his cheek. Any uncertainty he had about the identity of the ghost was gone now. He didn’t know if that made him more or less sad. </p>
<p>“You don’t like it when I talk shit about myself? Alright, I take it back then. Don’t want to make you mad.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0032"><h2>32. Gervex, Henri. After the Ball. 1879</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Tom finds a tiny upper hand with Logan.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <a href="http://www.artnet.com/artists/henri-gervex/after-the-ball-cgUHlolVaWS5aZtGCgXtHA2">after the ball</a>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>No one could say that Tom wouldn’t try to keep his marriage from crumbling apart. </p>
<p>He spent the rest of the trip trying to pretend like this was the second honeymoon he’d dreamed of a lifetime ago. If Shiv noticed something was wrong, she didn’t comment. Maybe she didn’t notice. Maybe she didn’t care. He got the impression that Greg was giving him space to make his marriage work. Of fucking <i>course</i> he was.</p>
<p>“Hey Shiv?” Tom asked. It had been a few weeks since the incident in the library. They didn’t have much time left, and though they had a counseling appointment later the next week, he didn’t know if it was even going to be worth it, “Do you think I could gain an audience with your father this morning?”</p>
<p>She frowned, and blinked in surprise across the table from him, probably because Tom had never asked to talk to Logan alone before. He didn’t like to admit it, but he was a little afraid of the man, “Uh, I suppose so? Why? You’re not… going to tell him about the appointment? I mean I told Rome and Kendall but-”</p>
<p>Tom shook his head, “No it’s not about that. It’s just business stuff. Nothing important really. Just, you know, while I’m thinking about it.”</p>
<p>Actually he’d been stupid not to talk to Logan about it sooner, but it wasn’t like he and Logan were very close. It wasn’t like he didn’t half expect Logan to call him batshit insane and throw him out of his office. But he had to try. Had to confirm it all. Logan hadn’t ever treated him like family, but they had this one, extraordinary thing in common. He had to plan out what he was going to say. Going to talk to Logan Roy without a plan of attack was about as stupid a thing as you could do.</p>
<p>“He’s loitering in his office,” Shiv said, taking a bite of her breakfast and shrugging, “You’re welcome to try. Don’t complain if he bites your head off.”</p>
<p>“I think I’ll try,” he stood up, and made his way towards the office. Logan probably wouldn’t be thrilled to see him, especially when he found out that Tom knew what was likely his biggest secret. He knocked lightly on the door. The light in the hallway flickered. </p>
<p>“Thanks Greg,” he whispered. </p>
<p>“Come in,” was Logan’s gruff reply and Tom slid into the office. It wasn’t the same study Ewan used-- Logan would probably be happy to know that-- but this felt familiar, this arrangement, “Tom. What do you want?”</p>
<p>Tom frowned, “I wanted to talk to you. You know, father in law to son in law.”</p>
<p>Logan stared at him. He always felt like Logan was judging him, sizing him up. This was no exception, “What?”</p>
<p>“I met your brother,” Tom said, “Ewan. Charming man in his own <i>special</i> way. You two are a lot alike. I can see why you don’t get along though.”</p>
<p>“What the fuck are you talking about? I don’t have a brother. You know that.”</p>
<p>“You do though,” Tom said, feeling an anger rise in his chest. Over everything. Over the fact that two different centuries of Roys had fucked him over in their own ways, “You have an older brother, and a sister, actually. And she died, so you and your brother split up over it. I know, because I spent several fucking months in 1860 and heard as much from Ewan himself.”</p>
<p>“So why the fuck are you bothering me about this? What do you want me to do about it?” Even though it wasn’t really much, it was an admission. Logan didn’t deny it, didn’t even look surprised at this, “What do I care about my brother?”</p>
<p>“It’s nothing,” Tom shrugged, “I just wanted you to know what I know.”</p>
<p>Logan gaped at him. Maybe rendered speechless for once in his life. Satisfied with his display, even though it was a little pathetic, Tom stood up to go.</p>
<p>“Thanks for the talk,” he smiled, knowing it probably looked more like a wince than anything else, turned on his heel and left. </p>
<p>It was nothing to feel confident about. Logan didn’t give a shit about him, and it wasn’t like he could use this batshit insane piece of information as any leverage. By denying it, Logan would seem the sane one and Tom would sound like he’d truly lost it. But he did feel good, knowing that he knew something Logan was hiding. </p>
<p>“Did you find dad?” Shiv asked, when he returned. </p>
<p>“Uh huh,” he said, pouring himself another cup of coffee, “It was fine.”</p>
<p>“You seem off,” she said, “What the fuck.”</p>
<p>“It’s nothing,” he replied, “I guess I’m just antsy to get home. This place still gives me the creeps.”</p>
<p>“Oh fucking tell me about it,” Shiv said, “I thought you were just being stupid about the ghosts, but this place is spooky as hell. Roman had a book thrown across the library.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, I saw that,” Tom said thoughtfully, “But you don’t believe in ghosts Shiv.”</p>
<p>“I’m not saying I believe in ghosts,” she shook her head, “I just don’t like this place.”</p>
<p>“Did anything happen to you?”</p>
<p>She shook her head, “No. Kendall said that he was talking on the phone and the line went dead but I think that was just the shitty wiring and not anything worth mentioning, but he insists the room dropped ten degrees before it happened. I think your ghost <i>thing</i> is spreading.”</p>
<p>Greg-- assuming it <i>was</i> Greg--didn’t really seem like the kind of play mindless pranks on just anybody and so he figured Kendall was saying something he didn’t like. But Shiv, who Greg knew Tom loved, would probably be free of anything for the rest of the time they were there, if Tom knew Greg-- and he did.</p>
<p>“Well we’ll be back in the States soon,” Tom reasoned. He didn’t know how to talk about the ghosts with Shiv, and it was better to change the subject, “No ghosts there.”</p>
<p>“Right,” she nodded, eyeing him, “No ghosts there.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0033"><h2>33. Hassam, Childe. The New York Window. 1912</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Tom's marriage falls apart around him</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <a href="https://www.nga.gov/collection/art-object-page.166494.html">the new york window</a>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Shiv handed him the divorce papers almost eight months after they made no progress in therapy. He’d seen it coming, and honestly, probably should have done it himself. But his father didn’t have very long left, and he’d been planning to go down there anyway. His mind had been elsewhere. </p>
<p>“You understand,” she said, nodding towards the papers.</p>
<p>“I do,” he said, “I’ll look them over and sign them. It’s all spelled out in the pre nup anyway.”</p>
<p>She nodded, “I’m sorry it has to be this way.”</p>
<p>“No you’re not,” he said and she made no motion to deny it, “Give me a few days to get a ticket to St. Paul and I’ll be out of your hair.”</p>
<p>“I’m going to stay with my father anyway,” she replied, “Take your time. Just give them to your lawyers and they’ll give it to me. If you don’t like something, tell them.”</p>
<p>“We tried,” Tom nodded, flipping open the packet, “I think we just… weren’t meant to be.”</p>
<p>“I think so too,” she went over to pour herself a cup of coffee, “I know this isn’t an ideal time, with your father and everything but I figured-”</p>
<p>“It’s fine,” he said, “Might as well add it on to everything else on my fucking plate right now. My father’s <i>dying</i> Shiv.”</p>
<p>“Oh Tom,” she sighed, “Don’t be like that.”</p>
<p>“No really,” he stood up and tucked the packet under his arm, “It’s fine. Are you done in the bedroom for the morning?”</p>
<p>She nodded. </p>
<p>“Then I’ll be up there if you need anything. I have a plane ticket to buy.”</p>
<p>He stalked upstairs and slammed the door shut. It wasn’t that he’d wanted the marriage to fail. That wasn’t true. He had done his best in therapy, but Shiv wanted things he couldn’t give, and Tom wanted things Shiv didn’t have. Probably therapy would have worked better <i>before</i> they were married, but it was too fucking late now.</p>
<p>Hands shaking a bit, Tom threw the papers onto the bed. He knew he had to read them, but he had a thousand other things to do. Somewhere below, he heard the front door slam, meaning Shiv had left. </p>
<p>He dialed his mother, and she picked up in two rings. </p>
<p>“Mom?”</p>
<p>“Tommy? What’s wrong?”</p>
<p>“Shiv and I are getting a divorce,” he said, the words rushing out of him all at once, “How’s dad?”</p>
<p>“He’s alright Tommy. She gave you the papers?”</p>
<p>“Uh huh. I have them. I thought I’d come there. I can get a flight for later in the week? Is that alright?”</p>
<p>“I think it’s probably for the best,” she said after a moment. </p>
<p>“What is? The divorce or my coming there?”</p>
<p>“Both. What happened? I thought you were going to counseling?”</p>
<p>“It’s complicated,” he said, sitting down on the edge of the bed. The locket felt comforting around his neck, settled above his heart as it was. He thought, suddenly, that he could check this off the list of things that would get him to Greg, even though he hated it, “I don’t know.”</p>
<p>“You don’t have to explain it right now,” she said softly, “Just buy your ticket Tommy. We can figure it all out when you get here. Right?”</p>
<p>“Right. I’ll call you when I get my ticket alright? Can I talk to Dad really quickly?”</p>
<p>“For a moment Tommy, he’s awfully tired.”</p>
<p>He heard her call out, heard the phone switch hands. </p>
<p>“Tom?”</p>
<p>“Hi Dad,” he said, looking up so he wouldn’t start crying, “I miss you guys a lot.”</p>
<p>“What’s going on eh? Are you coming home?”</p>
<p>“Yeah,” he tugged at the phone cord, “I’ll be flying out at the end of the week?”</p>
<p>“With Shiv?”</p>
<p>“No, Shiv and I aren’t going to be together,” he said. His father had always liked Shiv, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to dump the divorce onto his lap right now, “It’ll just be me right now.”</p>
<p>“We’ll be glad to host you then,” he could <i>hear</i> his father’s smile, “We’ll see you soon then.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, I love you. Tell Mom I love her.”</p>
<p>“I will Tom.”</p>
<p>Tom hung up the phone, let himself slide to the floor, covered his face in his hands, and realized, for the very first time, that his life was falling apart in front of him and he couldn’t do anything to stop it.</p>
<p>It was so Goddamn stupid. But he felt like he had nothing in his control. The divorce was a good thing. They’d both be happier with it signed, but it wasn’t like he’d magically stopped loving Shiv. It would still hurt to sign the papers. And he couldn't control his father’s health, but it still felt like someone was stabbing him in the heart. And the one person he felt like he could talk to about this had been dead for a hundred years. And his ghost was across the Atlantic. </p>
<p>He had to do something. To stop himself from going crazy or throwing himself out of the window. Carefully, he picked up the papers and set them on the nightstand, smoothing out some of the crinkles. He composed himself and dressed. Shiv would be back to collect some things for her stay with Logan, but she’d probably try to come when he wasn’t home and he thought he’d spend as much of the day out as he could. He could stop by a travel agent and book his ticket, and maybe pick up something for his parents. There were plenty of errands he could run, if nothing else. </p>
<p>It would be good to stay busy. He couldn't think about this for too long, otherwise he would be too far gone to compose himself. This was for the best, he had to tell himself. </p>
<p>If nothing else, it was one step closer to maybe seeing Greg again.</p>
<p>Grabbing a jacket, his wallet, and keys, Tom headed out of the building, and turned left, figuring he’d decide where he was going when he got there.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0034"><h2>34. Hunt, William Holman. The Awakening Conscience. 1853</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Tom spends some time at the Met.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <a href="https://www.tate.org.uk/art/artworks/hunt-the-awakening-conscience-t02075">the awakening conscience</a>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The <i>beautiful</i> thing about New York City was that he could find anything he wanted. He stepped into the first travel agency he found, and the woman booked him a seat on a flight to St. Paul Friday afternoon, which meant he had six days left in the city. He had thanked her and left, wandering until he decided he’d go to a gallery. The Met, maybe. It’d been a bit since he’d been surrounded by art, and it would help.</p>
<p>That was the thing about art. It was constant. When he looked at a Degas, he was looking at the same Degas everybody before him had looked at. He wandered the clean floors, hands jammed in his pockets, stopping occasionally when something unfamiliar caught his eye. It <i>was</i> helping him feel better. </p>
<p>Eventually he had a sort of stupid thought, and went over to the information desk where an older woman was flipping through a large book. She looked up when he stepped forward. </p>
<p>“I had a kind of obscure question about a Victorian painter,” he said, “she won’t have been very well known but I was wondering if there was anybody I could talk to.”</p>
<p>“Hmm,” the woman adjusted her glasses, “Victorian you said? Where? The UK?”</p>
<p>He nodded, “Scotland.”</p>
<p>He had asked the question before he could stop himself and it was too late now even if this <i>was</i> stupid. </p>
<p>“Give me just a moment sir. We’ve a young lady here. Knows all about that era. She’ll be better equipped to help you.”</p>
<p>“Take your time,” he said, selecting a pamphlet from the counter, “thank you.”</p>
<p>After several minutes the woman returned with another, younger woman, who stuck out a hand and introduced herself as Samantha. She was younger than even Tom and had a bright smile. </p>
<p>“I heard you had a Victorian painter question,” she said cheerfully. She stepped out from behind the counter and motioned for him to follow, “are you an artist?”</p>
<p>“Art history,” he explained, “when I was still in school.”</p>
<p>She nodded as they walked, back to the section where most of the Victorian work was kept, “Maybe I can answer it.”</p>
<p>“It’s a very obscure painter,” he said, “she was painting in the 1860s or so, up in the Highlands. Marianne Roy?”</p>
<p>She nodded, “Oh yes! I know all about her, though, there’s not all that much to know. She’s not well known nowadays. Most of her work has been in the Roy family— you know <i>that</i> Roy family— so no one has been able to get their hands on it for the most part. I’m so jealous. She’s my favorite painter of the time. </p>
<p>He nodded. This was a coincidence, surely. A coincidence that the museum he’d decided to visit, happened to have Marianne’s number one fan working at it. But Tom had all but abandoned the idea of coincidences at this point. </p>
<p>“But,” she looked around, “we’ve an exhibit coming up next month and we’ve got one on loan from a place in Queens.”</p>
<p>“Are you serious?”</p>
<p>She nodded, practically bouncing with excitement, “it’s an earlier work, dated 1857 and evidently it was brought over by either a friend or family member in the 1870s or 1880s. As far as I’m aware it’s the only one in the US. The exhibit opens on the tenth.”</p>
<p>“I’ll be in St. Paul. My father is ill. I don’t think I’ll be back for several months,” Tom said. Of course it was more bad news. He could hear the defeat in his voice. And given her look, it must have shown on his face as well </p>
<p>“Alright,” she said, glancing around again, “where did you go to college?”</p>
<p>“University of Minnesota. Why?”</p>
<p>“Just stay here,” she said, “Look at this lovely Monet and I’ll be right back.”</p>
<p>Without another word she dashed off, and he was contemplating just leaving when she returned. </p>
<p>“I’m bad at lying so if I said someone was here from the university I wouldn’t actually be lying,” she said, pinning a badge to his jacket. It read VISITOR- ACADEMIC in bold letters, with University of Minnesota scribbled underneath. She uncapped a marker and looked up, “what’s your name?”</p>
<p>“Tom,” he said. </p>
<p>“Perfect,” she replied, writing it down in the empty slot, “Last name?”</p>
<p>“Wambsgans.”</p>
<p>She paused, like she was trying to spell it in her head, “I don’t think that’s gonna fit. I’ll just write Tom W.”</p>
<p>“What’s going on?” He asked. </p>
<p>“You want to see the painting,” she replied, “so you’re going to see the painting.”</p>
<p>“Why?”</p>
<p>She frowned, “No offense, but you look like you’re having a pretty bad day. And Marianne never gets any recognition. I think she’d be happy to know someone asked for her work specifically. It is certainly deserving of it.”</p>
<p>Samantha led him behind the scenes of the museum, and even though Tom felt like he was going to get in trouble. But no one so much as gave them a second glance, and Samantha motioned for him to wait while she got the painting. </p>
<p>Tom waited politely for her to return, doing his best to act like he belonged there. Thankfully, he’d had a bit of practise. </p>
<p>“He we go,” Samantha said, gently setting the painting down on the table in front of them, “It’s called <i>Rose Garden</i> but, if you’ll notice, there’s not actually any roses in it.”</p>
<p>Tom knew the garden well. He’d been there several times, but it was still strange to see it in painted form. He’d never seen this work when he’d been at the manor. </p>
<p>“It’s believed Rose was a person,” she explained. Clearly Samantha was just happy to have someone who was willing to listen to her information, “Either her mother or an aunt.”</p>
<p>“I see,” Tom replied. He’d gotten very familiar with Marianne’s style, and probably would have recognized it alone, if he’d never been to the garden in real life. That and both Ewan and Greg were sitting on the bench. She was a landscape artist, that was for sure, but he made them both out clear enough. He felt a stab of….longing to be back there right now, “And the men there?”</p>
<p>“Likely her son and father. There’s little mention of her having a husband anywhere.”</p>
<p>“Oh,” Tom nodded. Marianne would have been happy to know that.</p>
<p>“I don’t know much about her personal life in all honesty. Like I said, it’s impossible to find much about her,” Samantha said, “Though I believe she just had the one child. There’s not much research on her— that’s just sexism if you ask me— but I believe a few sources cite her as having two sons. But that could easily be incorrect. She was an intensely private person, as was her whole family at the time. No tabloids back then to keep us updated on Roy family antics.”</p>
<p>“It’s a beautiful work,” Tom said. He always thought Marianne’s work belonged in a museum. And here it was, at the fucking Met. Tom wished he’d be able to tell her this somehow, but even if he went back, he couldn't tell her about the future.</p>
<p>“Oh she was very talented. No doubt about that. I’d kill to be able to see more of her work, but what’s not in private collections— or a private <i>collection<i> I should say— is likely all in Scotland though if memory serves Marianne was born in Canada. If you’d like to know more, you’d have more luck in Scotland I’m afraid.”</i></i></p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“I might just have to go,” Tom laughed. But he wasn’t even remotely joking. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“You know what the strange thing was though?” She said, “and you’ll have to forgive me if this sounds insane, but I’ve studied her work since I was in school myself. I’ve always admired her. You know, a woman painter, painted the home and family life. And with talent like that? But I digress, we got a visit from a curator of a place in Queens, like I said, about oh, I’d say two months after I started working here.”</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Right,” Tom prompted, “I promise not to think you’re crazy.”</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Well, I suppose that the logical explanation is that the art world really is small, and the couple of papers I wrote on Marianne in grad school caught someone’s eye because they only loaned it to us, they said, <i>because</i> I was here. They said it’s too valuable to just lend out even though we’re the <i>Metropolitan Museum of Art.</i>”</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“I don’t find that hard to believe,” Tom said, tearing his eyes from the painting, “The art world <i>is</i> very small.”</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>She nodded, “I suppose that’s it, only he said that he’s had the painting in the collection since the early 1900s and there’s always been strict instructions to give it to me. And I know maybe it’s a weird coincidence or something. I mean, Samantha is an uncommon name right? But sometimes I can’t help but think that Marianne knew, somehow, how much I’d admire her work.”</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Tom felt… strange. Having had the same thought two years ago, about a painting in his bedroom, he believed her right away, though he wasn’t sure how exactly it could have happened. Unless he….what? Told whoever brought this painting to America to be on the lookout for Samantha in the 1980s?</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Well, it wasn’t impossible.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Maybe she did,” he said, “Who knows?”</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“I’m going to lobby to keep the exhibit up for as long as we can have the painting,” she said, “If you’re able to make it back to New York in time, you should come and see it.”</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“I’ll do my best,” Tom said, knowing that it was unlikely he would. If things went well-- not that there was any indication that they would-- Tom wouldn’t need to come and see Marianne’s work in a museum. Hopefully he’d be able to see it in it’s own time.</i>
  </i>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0035"><h2>35. Whistler, James McNeil. Whistler's Mother. 1871</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Tom suffers <i>another</i> loss and tries to think about <i>when,</i> exactly, his future lies.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Whistler%27s_Mother#/media/File:Whistlers_Mother_high_res.jpg">whistler's mother</a>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>With his mother’s death, Tom could feel the last tie to 1987-- to his place in modern times really-- sever, like someone had cut it with a pair of scissors. She hadn’t suffered, not really in the end, and he’d been with her all the time. She had asked about Shiv all of the time, from the moment he arrived in St. Paul the week Shiv had given him the papers, up until she died, but Tom always replied that it was complicated, and it was better this way. He didn’t want to explain it to her. He didn’t want her to think ill of Shiv.</p>
<p>She’d gotten sick several months after her husband’s death, though it hadn’t been too serious at first. </p>
<p>He had made no move to return to New York, beyond a few quick weekend trips to collect some of his things. But then it became clear it was terminal, and she had made the decision to let life take its course. She missed Tom’s father fiercely. That was evident. Tom, knowing his mother wouldn’t listen to him, agreed to stay with her and do as she needed, for as long as she needed.</p>
<p>“I don’t want you to be alone,” she said again, like she’d done every few days since he’d gotten there. Like she was hoping he’d tell her more if she asked enough. It was one of her last days, but she still looked healthy, still insisted on doing all she could for herself, “Promise me that you won't’ be alone.”</p>
<p>“I think I found someone,” he said, looking down at his hands in his lap. The bedside chair wasn’t meant for long term use, but his back had grown used to it by now, “It’s complicated.”</p>
<p>“I don’t know why. You make things too complicated for yourself. Bring me my jewelry box Tommy, from the dresser.”</p>
<p>He jumped up and scrambled to get it, setting it gently in her lap. </p>
<p>Carefully, she opened it, “Useless, most of it. Sell it if you like.”</p>
<p>“Mom, don’t talk like that,” he said. She’d been talking about her death more and more lately, almost like she knew. When it happened, Tom wondered if maybe she had in some way. </p>
<p>“This,” she pulled out her engagement ring she’d placed there for safekeeping when she got sick, “Give her this.”</p>
<p>“It’s more complicated than that,” Tom said, though he accepted the ring at her insistence Eventually, he’d place it on the chain with Greg’s locket, but now he held it between his hands like it was alive and going to jump onto the floor if he didn’t hold it tight enough, “It’s not- it’s not a woman Mom.”</p>
<p>She blinked at him several times.</p>
<p>“Oh,” she said casually and looked back into the box, “Then take your father’s ring instead. That’s more fitting.”</p>
<p>She handed over the gold band his father had worn when he’d been alive. Tom knew the inscription by heart. His parents' names-- Henry and Evie-- and their wedding date, written out. Sometimes, when Tom was little, his father used to let him run his finger over the engraved gold. </p>
<p>“You give that to him then,” she said, closing his hand around the pair of rings with a note of finality, “Why didn’t you bring him home?”</p>
<p>“He lives far away,” Tom explained. It wasn’t technically a lie, which was good, because his mother would see through it in a second if it was, “it wasn’t possible.”</p>
<p>She frowned, “What is it?”</p>
<p>“If I go to be with him,” Tom said slowly, “I probably won’t come back home ever again.”</p>
<p>“Well what’s here for you?” she motioned vaguely around the dim bedroom, but he knew she meant the larger picture, “Your father’s gone. I’ll be gone soon enough Tommy, I know you don’t want to hear it. Shiv’s gone, and I don’t think you ever got along much with her family, no matter how you pretended.”</p>
<p>“No,” he admitted.</p>
<p>“So what’s keeping you here?”</p>
<p>“Nothing I guess,” it felt strange to say. After two years, he’d finally have nothing tying him to his own time. He’d...well, he’d have made good on his promise. If he wanted to, in September, he could go back to Greg-- hopefully to Greg-- in good faith, free of everything that was keeping him to 1987. No marriage, no family. </p>
<p>“See?” she chuckled. He thought she sounded tired, “I’m right. Does he have a family?”</p>
<p>Tom nodded, “His mother and grandfather. I think at least. We haven’t spoken in a little bit. They liked me though, when we met.”</p>
<p>“Then go with my blessings,” she smiled fondly, “Alright Tommy? Sell the house. It doesn’t mean anything to anybody here. Let your silly relatives fight over it. Your cousin Robert has been eyeing it since I fell ill. You have done enough people pleasing. Tell me about this man Tom.”</p>
<p>“Greg?”</p>
<p>“Oh?” she raised her eyebrows, “Greg’s his name? Where did you meet him? Entertain me until the Young and the Restless starts.”</p>
<p>“We met when Shiv and I went to Scotland,” Tom began, “And it was pretty romantic Mom, like those romance novels you used to read.”</p>
<p>“Good. Tell me all about it Tommy.”</p>
<p>He hadn’t spoken to anybody about Greg since he’d come home. Even though he had spoken to Greg himself briefly, that was different. Logan knew he’d gone back, but knew nothing else. It was the first time he’d told anyone the story-- albeit modified to remove any of the time travel elements, and also the things he didn’t want his mother knowing he’d done. </p>
<p>“He gave me this,” Tom slid the locket off from around his neck, something he very rarely did when he wasn’t taking a shower or something like that. </p>
<p>His mother nodded, “It’s very beautiful. It looks old. Where did he get it?”</p>
<p>“His father gave it to his mother. And he gave it to me before I left. Went back to Shiv you know? I told him that if all was going to work out for us, I’d meet him on September 18th every year. I don’t know if he’ll be there. Who knows what could have happened since. I told him he didn't need to wait for you, that he should run off with somebody if he wanted to.”</p>
<p>“You have to have a little faith,” she squeezed his hand, “Alright? Try to have a little faith.”</p>
<p>“I’ll try.”</p>
<p>“You better,” she said.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0036"><h2>36. Magritte, Rene. The Son of Man. 1946</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Tom thinks about his life and his future.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <a href="https://www.renemagritte.org/the-son-of-man.jsp">son of man</a>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In August, Tom ended his apartment lease, sold a good portion of his things, settled the last bit of his parents estate, and bought a one way ticket to Glasgow for September 16th. He wrote Shiv a letter, which he may or may not ever post, and collected the cruise documents he’d hidden under the mattress from when he still worked at Waystar, and thought about life. The lease was up at the end of August, so he still had time to sit and enjoy the mornings, looking over the city. </p>
<p>Despite it all, Tom was not optimistic. Things hadn’t ever really gone right for him, so to think that he was special enough to alter the past just because he had fallen in love with Greg was thinking far too much of himself. If Ewan, who lived and breathed in the past for far longer than Tom had, believed that history couldn’t be altered, then who was Tom to alter it?</p>
<p>Sipping at his coffee, looking out over Manhattan, Tom thought about everything that had gotten him to this point in life. He was already divorced, his parents were dead, and he had a ticket to Scotland that was based on a wish and a prayer. </p>
<p>But his mother would want him to go. His father would want him to go. He knew that. And <i>if</i> Greg was still alive, then Goddamnit, he wanted to see him. Maybe that would go to hell. It was possible, sure. He had thought he and Shiv would last forever, but then <i>life</i> had gotten in the way. </p>
<p>He took another sip of the coffee. </p>
<p>The thing was though, that Tom didn’t even care if it went to hell. He didn’t feel like he belonged here anymore. It was probably just grief, or something like that, but he felt like an interloper in his own life. Like when you went to another country for a long period of time-- you had established a routine there, had a sort of life there, but it wasn’t your home.</p>
<p>Tom had checked out several books on the Victorian Era from the library, in the hopes that he’d be able to learn everything he needed. Ewan wouldn’t ask questions about his lack of knowledge of then contemporary events, but others might. Especially if the move was long term like he intended it to be. </p>
<p>A newfound habit of his was to examine his father’s wedding band. He had gone to a jewelry store to get a box for it, and often found himself opening and closing it. Once he’d done this, in the weeks before he proposed to Shiv. He couldn’t propose, to Greg of course, but the locket he wore was <i>such</i> a romantic gesture. Tom needed to match it somehow. If Greg took it to be a stand in for a proposal they couldn’t technically have, so be it. Tom wasn’t going to argue that point.</p>
<p>Jesus Christ, what the hell was he talking about? Marriage? Proposals? He didn’t even know if Greg was going to be alive, much less if the idea of marriage-- at least a vague idea of marriage-- was something he might like. Really, he’d been away from Greg, with no contact, for almost two years. </p>
<p>Who was to know how much could have changed since then?  Surely Tom wasn't the same person who left two years ago. </p>
<p>But he could make it work. Somehow. He and Shiv had just been too different. That was all. It wasn’t like there was something wrong with him now, that nobody would ever love him. But then again, <i>hadn’t</i> he been the one to suggest their little September 18th rendezvous? Maybe Greg had just gone along with it so Tom would leave. Maybe Greg wouldn’t even be there anyway. In reality, in some kind of Romeo and Juliet like bullshit, he and Greg had only known each other a few months. There was so much you didn’t know about a person, so much that you probably couldn’t learn in just a few months. </p>
<p>Tom took the locket off from his neck and examined it. He had had half a mind at one point to have a professional look at it, just to see what it was made out of, to date it, but he hadn’t ever wanted it out of his sight.</p>
<p>And it didn’t matter if it was gold or if it was a piece of twine. It was a family heirloom given to Greg to give to a girl he wanted to marry. It wasn’t just something you gave out to anybody. He wasn’t thinking straight, that was all. He was nervous about the <i>giant</i> life change he was about to make, nervous that Greg was going to be dead. </p>
<p>That was all. </p>
<p>Because he <i>had</i> to try. His mother hadn’t known the full context, sure, but he knew she’d have been <i>pissed</i> if Tom gave up because he was what? Scared? Self deprecating? Ghost Greg hadn’t liked it when he was self deprecating. And even though ghost Greg wasn’t there to shout at him-- or at least make the lights flicker-- he knew he should behave. </p>
<p>He brushed a finger across the locket. The last time he’d spoken with Greg had been almost two years ago, but sometimes it felt like just yesterday. That the past two years in New York with Shiv and in St. Paul with his parents was some kind of dream. It had an unreal quality to it. Sort of, he reasoned, like he’d first felt when he’d accidentally gone back to 1860. Nothing felt real, like it could actually be happening. It was as if <i>that</i> was his real life, and this was some accidental trip he’d made to a place not meant for him.</p>
<p>That’s what he’d told Greg. That he <i>belonged</i> back then. He was finding that to be even more true. </p>
<p>Tom put the locket back on, and finished his coffee, feeling slightly better than he did when he’d started.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0037"><h2>37. Wood, Grant. American Gothic. 1930.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Tom goes back to Scotland, seeks out a familiar face, and reassures himself, ever so slightly.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <a href="https://www.artic.edu/artworks/6565/american-gothic">american gothic</a>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Tom arrived back in the town outside of Roy manor on the afternoon of September 17th, 1987. It took everything in him not to run up to the manor now. But it would be useless. Even if Tom finally had something go right for him, and Greg was alive, he wouldn’t be there until tomorrow.</p>
<p>Instead, he took a room on one of the many small inns, and hunted down the antique shop he and Shiv had been to when they’d visited. It felt like a long time ago and in a way it was. Tom had been a different person back then.</p>
<p>The little bell rang and there were two other customers, both being helped by the same man who had helped Shiv pick out her father’s present. </p>
<p>“Good afternoon,” he called, “Be with you in a moment.”</p>
<p>Tom nodded, and went over to the counter. As he hoped, the wife stepped out from the back. She greeted him politely, a tray with a teapot and cups in her hands. Like, Tom thought stupidly, she’d been expecting him. But in all likelihood, it was probably for the couple her husband was helping. </p>
<p>“Hello ma’am, I don’t know if you remember me,” Tom said, jamming his hands in his jeans pockets, “But I was here about two years ago with my wife. You read my fortune in tea leaves and you told me my palm contradicted itself.”</p>
<p>She looked him up and down for a minute then smiled, “I remember you. Aye, I’ve never seen a palm like that since.”</p>
<p>“I believe it all now,” Tom took one hand out of his pocket to rub the back of his neck. He was pretty embarrassed by this, “I was wondering if you could do it again.”</p>
<p>“Sure I can. I’ll pour you a cup in just a moment.”</p>
<p>“No rush,” he said, pretending to be deeply interested in the dish set on display behind the glass counter. When she returned, it was clear she wanted to know why he’d made the trip just to ask, but Tom took several sips of tea before he started talking. </p>
<p>“Your palm can change too, as you age,” she offered, “If you’d like. What is it you’d like to know dear?”</p>
<p>“You told me, back then, that I had <i>two</i> fates.”</p>
<p>“It doesn’t always mean literally.”</p>
<p>Tom shook his head, “I get that. But I think it did. I’m about to make a hell of a big decision. I- I don’t know if I’m making a bad decision.”</p>
<p>“Drink up,” she said, mulling over his words, “We’ll see what the leaves have to offer us before we decide anything else.”</p>
<p>Tom agreed, and they had their tea in pleasant silence. The other couple left, and the woman’s husband came over to join them. Tom realized he’d never asked their names back then. Likely he hadn’t cared. </p>
<p>“Are you staying at the manor again?” she asked. </p>
<p>Tom shook his head, “In town. My wife and I, ah, split up.”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said, and Tom thought she sounded very genuine about it, “What brings you back to town?”</p>
<p>“I’m doing some research, a personal hobby of mine. Into one of my ex-wife’s ancestors. She was a painter and art has always been an interest of mine you know?”</p>
<p>“Marianne!” the husband said, “She’s a local legend, if you don’t mind my saying.”</p>
<p>Tom smiled, “She was very talented. But that’s why I’m back.”</p>
<p>He wanted to ask about Greg. Maybe they would have even been able to tell him something, but he’d come this far on nothing but <i>hope</i> so what was one more day? He bit back the question and finished his tea. She dumped the leaves out and got to work.</p>
<p>“See here,” she pointed at the saucer, “That’s a clover. You can guess what that means. Good luck.”</p>
<p>“I could use it,” Tom chuckled. </p>
<p>“And this here looks a bit like a boat. Perhaps a journey in your future? And next to it looks a bit like a heart. That’s always meant love. Maybe something new coming your way?”</p>
<p>“Maybe so,” Tom was, really, happy with it. Usually he wouldn’t have believed in any of this. It was a hobby, meant to entertain people at best, but after everything he’d found to be true, why shouldn’t he believe in this? </p>
<p>“Would you like me to look at your palm?” she asked, and he didn’t hesitate in holding out his hand for her, “You’ve had a change of heart.”</p>
<p>“A lot has happened,” Tom offered. </p>
<p>She shrugged, and got to examining his palm. She made a noise Tom couldn’t decipher and nodded, content with whatever she’d found. </p>
<p>“Is it terminal?” Tom asked, the joke slipping out much to his own surprise. He hadn’t been one for joking lately and she laughed. </p>
<p>“Well, you’ve not got two fate lines anymore. Whatever you’ve done, it looks like you’ve sealed your fate. Fingers crossed it’s the right one eh?”</p>
<p>Tom knew this was probably meant to make him feel better. But it was vaguely threatening. He’d been so certain that his place was in this time, with Shiv and the Roys and his life here, but now, he wasn’t so sure. Maybe he <i>didn’t</i> belong here. Maybe he belonged back then, with Greg-- hopefully with Greg-- and the others. It seemed impossible that his fate lay in the past. Mostly because it was still, even now, hard to think about time travel as existing. You were born when you were born and that was that. It seemed silly that his future lay in 18-fucking-62. </p>
<p>And Tom didn’t even believe in fate or the universe or whatever it was that controlled people. He thought that people carved their own destinies. </p>
<p>“Was that at all helpful?” she asked. </p>
<p>Tom nodded, “It was, actually. Thank you.”</p>
<p>“You know I had a great great so many times aunt who used to work at the manor,” she said casually, collecting the empty cups and piling them on her silver tray, “She worked there until the 1870s or so the story goes?”</p>
<p>“Oh?” Tom asked. It felt too strange, like he might have met this woman’s long dead ancestor, “Why did she leave?”</p>
<p>“Left for America,” she explained, “She was a ladies maid until she made the choice to move. It’s funny. The family story is that she could see the future.”</p>
<p>“Must be genetic,” Tom chuckled, though nothing about it was very funny, “Why’s that your story? If you don’t mind my asking?”</p>
<p>“Oh it’s a silly story,” she shook her head, “You don’t want to hear it.”</p>
<p>“Sure I do,” Tom said, “I’d love to hear it.”</p>
<p>“Well,” she said, and Tom got the impression that she did, in fact, like regaling people with the story of her future-seeing ancestor, “She used to work for Marianne Roy you know? Emma was her name. She came into a bit of money and she and the family left for America.”</p>
<p>Tom remembered Emma, who’d been around Marianne’s age, but probably a bit younger, tall and slim, with her tight blond hair she’d worn in a bun. If Tom tried enough, he could maybe see Emma’s eyes on this woman. </p>
<p>“The legend, now keep in mind it’s all just family talk. Who knows what really happened, but the legend goes that Emma always told the family about the Depression. She kept telling her grandchildren and great grandchildren to take their money out before October of ‘29. No one knew how she could have foreseen the crash, but she was adamant about it.”</p>
<p>“I see,” Tom said. He couldn’t know, for sure, if Tom himself had told Emma about the Great Depression, but if he <i>had</i> then… that meant he made it back in time for sure. Whether or not Greg was there was a different story.</p>
<p>If Greg did as Tom thought he might, Marianne or Ewan would be waiting for him if Greg was...unable to. She wouldn’t have asked questions, he didn’t think. Not if Greg had asked her to and he wasn’t around anymore. That would enable Tom to return, even if Greg wasn’t there to greet him. Was the story about Emma tangible proof that Tom would be able to go back? Proof that he <i>would</i> for certain? He’d thought the painting with Samantha’s name on it was strange. Compelling. But this nearly sealed the deal in his mind. </p>
<p>“It kept our family afloat, I can tell you that,” she said, nodding, “Even if it wasn’t fortune telling on her part.”</p>
<p>“Right,” Tom chuckled, “Thank you ma’am. You’ve been helpful. Take care huh?”</p>
<p>“You too.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0038"><h2>38. Vermeer, Johannes. The Astronomer. 1668</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Tom finally gets some answers.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Astronomer_(Vermeer)#/media/File:Johannes_Vermeer_-_The_Astronomer_-_WGA24685.jpg">the astronomer</a>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The morning he planned to go up to the manor, Tom collected all of the cruise documents that he had saved. He stapled them together, put them in an envelope, and addressed them to Kendall. He mailed Shiv her letter. It didn’t say much, only that he did, in fact, love her, and that even if they never saw each other again, he never once regretted the time they spent together. Yes, he knew it sounded vaguely like a suicide note, but the truth was, they probably <i>wouldn’t</i> see each other again, and she deserved to know some things. He mentioned that Logan might be able to tell her more, if she asked him kindly enough. </p>
<p>He didn’t know if anything would come of the documents from Kendall, but the post office was the last thing he had to do before he left. He could cross it off his list and be done. </p>
<p>There wasn’t much keeping him in 1987 anymore. That was true. He’d made good on that promise to Greg.</p>
<p>The divorce was final, his parents were gone, and it wasn’t as if he had any friends. And it sure wasn’t like he and the Roys had remained civil by any means. What was left? A sad apartment in New York City? Sure, he could probably get a job and live a fine life, but there wasn’t anybody who loved him around anymore. That’s what hit the hardest. Tom was alone and had the opportunity to go back to someone-- hopefully-- who loved him. </p>
<p>In fact, he wasn’t <i>certain</i> that Greg would still be alive, but he hoped against all hope that it would be the case.  </p>
<p>It wasn’t hard to walk into the family cemetery. He had considered asking to see the family bible in the library, but he had a brief idea of Logan hanging up wanted photos with his picture on them and doubted anybody would let him into the manor. The cemetery should be sufficient. </p>
<p><i>If</i> Greg’s gravestone said 1860, he would go back to New York and live out his life here. That’s what Greg would have told him to do, probably, and Tom was not going to show up unannounced to a likely still grieving mother. It wouldn’t be right.</p>
<p>Or maybe he should do that. Maybe Emma’s fortune telling about Black Friday was proof that he should.</p>
<p>The people that loved Greg could grieve together. </p>
<p>He wasn’t sure what he would do though, when it all came down to it. Better to cross that bridge when and if he came to it. </p>
<p>The autumn air was brisk but not uncomfortable. Tom was not stopped at any point as he made his way to the family plot. Hell, maybe Logan hoped he’d go and told them not to stop him if he showed up.</p>
<p>The old iron gate creaked as he opened it up. If Greg was around in all his ghostly triumph, he wasn’t anywhere nearby, for Tom was pretty sure he was alone. He’d gotten good at figuring out when Greg was around, and figured he probably hadn’t lost that habit.</p>
<p>Despite the age of the house, the cemetery was not all that full. Some of the dates and names were worn away but he took his time, looking for Greg’s name. He knew that Marianne would have ensured it was correct and well preserved, should Greg had passed before her, but even still it was over a century ago. Time and weather would have worn the stone away if nothing else, no matter what kind of motherly love was put into it. </p>
<p>Really, he didn’t want to know the dates these people were going to die. He didn’t like being able to play God. When he went back, he didn’t want Marianne’s death date looming over her head every time that they spoke, so he tried to move on to the next headstone the moment he was certain it was not the grave he wanted, so he couldn’t see the death date. It was a compromise, of sorts. Well, it was the best he could do. He had to know, and he would already return with a century’s worth of knowledge. If he could prevent finding out these dates, that would be <i>something.</i></p>
<p>If someone were to look out the window right now, he wondered what they might think. Some crazy man was wandering through old graves and reading each one. He hoped that no one was looking.</p>
<p>“Greg, you dumbass, want to help me out a bit? Is it inappropriate to ask a ghost to point out their own gravestone?”</p>
<p>Tom could have <i>sworn</i> he heard a chuckle. Maybe not alone after all. Maybe Greg <i>had</i>, in fact, looked out of the window and seen a crazy man wandering among the graves.</p>
<p>“You like watching me suffer, that’s what it boils down to,” Tom said, glancing at his watch, “I have half an hour you realize that right? If I’m late it’ll be your fault. We’ll have to wait another year.”</p>
<p>A gust of wind picked up, just enough to blow the leaves around Tom’s feet down the row he was walking, stopping when they mostly landed second from the end. </p>
<p>“Thank you,” Tom said, “Was that so hard?”</p>
<p>Tom had to force his feet to move a bit, but he walked to stand in front of the grave, knelt down, and braced himself for whatever he was about to see. </p>
<p>Greg’s name was easy enough to make out, no smudged ink in a family bible here. </p>
<p>“And I’m the old man?” Tom muttered, brushing some dirt gently off the stone, “Someone was born in 1829. If anything, you’re the old man.”</p>
<p>He shut his eyes, nodded, and opened them to look at the second year. He saw the first two numbers-- one and nine-- and sat back on the grass. If Greg’s death year wasn’t until the twentieth century, then he could both reassure himself that Greg was not going to be dead if he returned to the past, and keep up his promise not to learn people’s death dates. </p>
<p>Reassured, probably for the first time in two years, Tom sat back and took a deep breath. He had been hopeful-- that was the word that seemed to fit, even though Tom was pretty sure he’d lost the ability to be hopeful-- that somehow he’d have made an impact on Greg’s death, even if he wasn’t sure how. </p>
<p>The wind blew past him again. </p>
<p>“What do you want?” Tom asked, “I still have some time. I’m not late, I told you that already.”</p>
<p>He glanced at the gravestone on the end and then at the empty space to his other side. </p>
<p>“You want me to look at that one?” Tom asked, but he didn’t wait for an answer. He moved over to look at whatever it was Greg wanted him to see. </p>
<p>Tom realized, at that moment, staring at his own name, that it was Goddamn lucky he hadn’t ventured into the cemetery when he was here with the Roys. He wasn’t sure how he would have reacted to seeing that, all things considered about the way he’d been scared shitless about the place and the amount of times he’d seen just his first name. Seeing his own grave might have given him a heart attack.</p>
<p>“In the family cemetery huh,” Tom stood up. He may have been looking at his own grave, like some kind of Ebenezer Scrooge parody, but he was not going to look at his own death date. He had to draw the line. Besides, this was enough. Greg was alive-- well alive in his own time-- and Tom evidently was going to manage to get back to him, “That’s kind of romantic or whatever. Guess we make it work in the end.”</p>
<p>Tom took a long, deep breath of cool air. He was not wavering in his decision. There was absolutely nothing keeping him in 1987, and evidently, he’d already made his choice, if the headstone at his feet was anything to go by. </p>
<p>But it was a big decision, that was true.</p>
<p>“Don’t want to be late,” he said, though he was unsure if Greg was still there, “I’ll see you in a bit, yeah?”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0039"><h2>39. Leutze, Emanuel. Washington Crossing the Delaware. 1851</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Tom thinks about life, death, and romance.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <a href="https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/11417">Washington crossing the Delaware</a>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Shaking, just a bit, Tom carefully made his way towards the woods. He was right on schedule, given the time on his watch, but he had a horrible fear of being late. Greg had already missed him last year. Tom was pretty sure he was going to <i>literally</i> explode if he had to spend another year here alone. </p>
<p>“You know Gregory,” he said, when he saw the familiar rock. It was still only quarter to twelve, and all was quiet. He sat down against it, letting the cool stone press against his back, “Things have been pretty shitty since we last spoke. I’m really hoping this is rock bottom you know?”</p>
<p>He didn’t get the impression that Greg was anywhere around him. Maybe he wasn’t allowed this far from the house. It was alright though. He only had a little bit more time. Then he would be able to see Greg himself, and not talk in the general direction of the air he thought Greg was haunting. </p>
<p>“This is the first time I’ve been reassured you were alive,” Tom said. He knew Greg couldn’t hear him, and he also was aware that he looked batshit insane sitting here talking to someone who had been dead for <i>decades.</i> But the woods were empty, and would probably remain that way. Even if they didn’t, he was running down the clock anyway, “You owe me a lot after all the sleepless nights I had Mr. Hirsch. I swear to God.”</p>
<p>He had a very strange feeling in his stomach. He <i>knew</i> this was the right choice, but what if he <i>did</i> fuck it up. Greg and the Roys were the only people left on planet Earth who seemed to like him, even if Ewan didn’t like him that much. And true, he had seen his own grave in the family cemetery which had to count for something, but he still worried. He would worry until he had Greg in his arms and saw his stupid smile for himself. Until he could reach out a hand and touch flesh and muscle and not chilly air.</p>
<p>“God I fucked my marriage up so bad,” he said, looking up at the trees. A bird chirped somewhere, “But I think I was going to fuck it up anyways. Maybe it would have just taken longer if we never met. I don’t know. The woman in the antique shop said that I’d chosen the fate line I wanted to follow or whatever bullshit that is. Do you believe in that? I don’t know. But I guess it doesn’t matter. I think I <i>have</i> made my decision. And it just happens to be a hundred fucking years ago.”</p>
<p>He glanced at his watch again. 11:51. </p>
<p>“You know,” Tom said, “Would it kill you to be early?”</p>
<p>11:52.</p>
<p>“Well,” Tom reasoned, “Only one of us is confident that the other is going to show up. I guess that’s a fair point. But you’d better not be late Greg. I’m going to be so pissed at you.”</p>
<p>And while he <i>was</i> confident that Greg wasn’t dead, maybe Greg was just keeping his promise. Maybe he didn’t want Tom anymore. That was well within his right. Especially since Tom had been married when they first met. </p>
<p>It would fit, too, because Tom’s life was a mess. Seeing Greg’s changed death day was a good sign, that was true, but the universe hadn’t been kind to him before. Would Greg come to get him out of some obligation? Not anything like love. Because Tom <i>did</i> love him. He’d never told Greg of course, but now he would have plenty of opportunities. He hadn’t ever thought that seeing his own gravestone-- which in itself sounded insane-- would be the best thing to happen to him the semi-recent past. That it would reassure him that his batshit crazy plan was going to work.</p>
<p>“I saw my own gravestone. I mean. What the fuck right? And it’s not even the worst thing that’s happened to me lately. It’s kind of nice actually. I think it means that you and me, we figure it out. One of us is pretty smart after all.”</p>
<p>He could never really tell Greg about that sight. He’d already foretold Greg’s death once, and if time played out as it should, once he was back there, Tom would likely be dead first. He was older after all. No, he wouldn’t talk about the cemetery unless he had to. They couldn’t really have a normal relationship, not with everything that had happened, but Tom was going to do everything in his power to make it as normal as possible. Talking about death days he’d seen a century in the future did <i>not</i> fall under the category of acting as normal as possible.</p>
<p>It would be impossible to fully pretend like he was from the past. There would always be something that would separate him. But he thought it would be best to fully integrate himself into 1862. It was where he was going to live the rest of his life. And that was <i>fine</i> by him. What did he have here? Even Ewan had a brother, several nephews, and a niece here. Tom’s family in St. Paul hadn’t even been much help at his own parents funerals. They might not even notice if he was gone. They’d just think he’d moved away again. </p>
<p>“Anytime now Greg,” Tom stole another glance at his watch. It was a matter of minutes now, “God, I’m so fucking desperate to see you. I’m glad you can’t hear this brazen display of romance. It’s disgusting honestly. It makes me want to puke.”</p>
<p>Tom held his breath for a moment. Was that the buzz? The silence of the woods was deafening. It grew louder.</p>
<p>“A minute early,” Tom chuckled, “Somebody’s desperate too huh?”</p>
<p>It wasn’t sad, like he thought it might be to leave this time behind. That was life wasn't it? Out with the old and in with the new? Long ago he’d decided, even if he hadn’t realized it, that he belonged with Greg. In the past. And now he was just fulfilling his fate or whatever stupid shit his palm foretold. </p>
<p>It was just the next chapter or whatever kind of bullshit someone could say about something like this. </p>
<p>Tom shut his eyes, reached out, and pressed a hand against the cold stone.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0040"><h2>40. Picasso, Pablo. The Lovers. 1923</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Finally, Tom has his reunion.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <a href="https://www.nga.gov/collection/art-object-page.46667.html">the lovers</a>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The autumn sun was warm on his face. Tom braced himself for disappointment, then opened his eyes. He was looking up at the sky, flat on his back. The grass was a bit damp, and he could feel the dew leaching through to his skin.</p>
<p>“Fancy seeing you here,” a very familiar and <i>very</i> welcome voice said, looking down at him. Greg looked the same. He was breathing and smiling and <i>alive</i> and Tom pinched the skin of his arm to just make sure this wasn’t a dream, “It’s been a bit hasn’t it? What brings you back to my part of the world.”</p>
<p>“Hi Greg,” Tom said, and he almost burst into tears then and there, “Help me up would you?”</p>
<p>Greg offered a hand, and pulled Tom to his feet.</p>
<p>“I take it you didn’t fix your marriage.”</p>
<p>“Shut the fuck up Greg,” Tom said before taking Greg’s face in his hands and kissing him, “I take it you didn’t burn to death in a house fire.”</p>
<p>“You make a compelling point,” Greg said and kissed him again.</p>
<p>Everything seemed to hit him at once. The fact that he was here, and Greg was here. Not just a dream or a fantasy, but solid flesh and bone. The horror Tom had felt at the idea that Greg might be dead was all moot now. Because here he was. </p>
<p>“I didn’t know if you’d come,” Greg admitted, “I hoped that you would.”</p>
<p>“I was good, I tried my hardest. And I didn’t peek at the bible, because some annoying ass ghost wouldn’t let me.”</p>
<p>“You <i>did</i> promise,” Greg kissed him once again, “Come on. I’ll take you back to the house. I brought you some clothes to wear. So my mother doesn’t ask questions. Well, more questions than she probably already has.”</p>
<p>Greg allowed Tom the time to change, and the moment he was done, slid his arm through Tom’s, to take him back to the house.</p>
<p>“I don’t understand it. Tell me what happened, exactly.”</p>
<p>“There <i>was</i> a fire,” Greg explained, “I stayed up all night, I promised you that I would try. My grandfather, he doesn’t sleep much you know? So I spent a lot of the night in his study. He didn’t even mind, usually he doesn’t like when I bother him. But he didn’t even mind. It was a really stormy night. No rain, just clouds. Very dark, you know? I tried to go to Glasgow, just to get out of the house, but the threat of a storm was real-- my mother insisted that it wouldn’t be safe, and no coaches wanted to risk a trip in the threat of a storm like that, and I worried that if I argued with her too much she’d start asking questions that I didn’t know how to answer.”</p>
<p>“Right.”</p>
<p>“There was a small fire. East wing, upstairs. By my room, but I wasn’t there. Where I would have been if I was asleep but I did like you asked. It didn’t do much damage. Couple of tapestries and a few rugs. I think a couple of singed eyebrows putting it out. But it could have been bad, if no one was around. I mean, I may have… mentioned it to some people that they should be on the lookout in the dark, for the lightning to strike. I guess Grandpa said something too? I don’t know. People were on edge anyway. It was the strangest night I’ve ever had.”</p>
<p>“Uh huh.”</p>
<p>“I know-- I get how it could have killed me. If no one had been around and I’d been sleeping. Fabric burns easily, so does wood. I sleep pretty soundly you know”</p>
<p> “I don’t know if I fully understand it Greg. I mean. Not changing the history is time travel 101.”</p>
<p>Tom was pretty sure he’d thrown that rule out the window, but, technically, he knew it wasn’t going to cause the world to implode if he saved one family from starvation in the ‘30s. As much as it made his head hurt to try and figure out the logistics of it all. Maybe it was alright to save the people in the here and now. He’d be dead in the future anyway, and if it meant Greg got to live another forty years, Emma’s family had food to eat in the Depression, and Marianne didn’t lose her son, then who cared what sort of time travel rules his was breaking? </p>
<p>Greg shrugged, “Neither do I but I’m worried if I think about it too much God will realize He forgot about me and strike me dead so I’ve been just trying to accept it. I don’t want Him to take too much note of his slip up.”</p>
<p>Up to the manor they went, and Greg pushed the front door open all the way. He let Tom in first.</p>
<p>“What a gentleman,” Tom muttered, and Greg hid a smile.</p>
<p>“Mr. Wambsgans?” Marianne said, coming down the last few stairs and hurrying over to them, “We didn’t expect you.”</p>
<p>“That’s my fault,” Greg said sheepishly, “Tom wrote to tell me that his mother passed away and that he’d no more family in America and I invited him back. I wasn’t sure he’d return so I didn’t tell you. I didn’t want you to get your hopes up or anything.”</p>
<p>She shook her head, “You never tell me anything Greg. But of course you’re more than welcome to stay with us again. You look well. Your mother though... I’m so very sorry dear.”</p>
<p>“Thank you,” he smiled tightly. </p>
<p>“Mama, I have to tell you something,” Greg said, “About why Tom came back. I mean, about why I thought he should come here after his mother died.”</p>
<p>“Oh?” Marianne raised her eyebrows, “What is it?”</p>
<p>“I told Tom to come back because-” he trailed off and frowned, “What I’m trying to say is that there’s a <i>reason</i> that Tom wanted to come back.”</p>
<p>“Yes, Greg, I can’t read your mind though so if you’d like to tell me, you’ll have to say it.”</p>
<p>Greg took a deep breath and let it down, “Tom came back because he and I are… together. We’ve <i>been</i> together since he was here last time. He had some things he needed to take care of and obviously he wanted to see his parents and everything but he’s back now. I don’t want you to try and marry me off anymore. I know what my father did was unacceptable, but Tom’s not married anymore and neither am I so it’s different. If you want to disown me or have Grandfather do it, I understand but it’s the truth.”</p>
<p>Marianne blinked. Even Tom was surprised at the rush of words that came out of Greg’s mouth. He was happy, that was true, but still surprised that he’d done it so… well not quite eloquently but firmly. </p>
<p>“Well I knew that,” she put her hands on her hips and Tom and Greg shared a look, “Greg, one only had to watch the way you two looked at each other to know that. I was expecting something I <i>didn’t</i> know.”</p>
<p>“You don’t care?” Greg asked, “I mean after Father-”</p>
<p>Marianne shook her head, “You’re not your father. Besides, all I want is for you to be happy. Go on now, I need to speak to Mr. Wambsgans privately.”</p>
<p>Greg frowned at her  and opened his mouth to reply, but Tom nodded and cut him off, “Go on. It’s fine.”</p>
<p>“Yes it is,” Marianne slipped her arm through Tom’s and ushered him out the front door. Down the path they went, a few moments in silence until they reached the gardens where they could wander on a path and not tread on the grass-- and so Greg couldn’t hear them. </p>
<p>“You knew?” Tom asked. </p>
<p>“I had an inkling. He was… devastated when you left but he kept insisting it was all for the best. I need you to tell me that you love him,” she stopped and turned to look at him, “I need to hear it from your lips, away from the influence of my son. I need you to tell me the truth.”</p>
<p>“I do love him,” Tom said. She couldn’t understand just how much this was true. He would never be able to tell her about his life in the future, about what he traded for a new life here. And it wasn’t like he needed her to know. He didn’t need to prove himself to her, not really, but he wanted her to know he was genuine, “I have since we met.”</p>
<p>She looked him up and down, “Alright. I believe you.”</p>
<p>“You don’t mind me staying in your home?”</p>
<p>She shook her head, “I assume if Greg were to marry, she’d live here as well, for a time. It’s not all that different. But should you prove to be… unfitting for my son, you’ll have to go. You can understand my reasoning here?”</p>
<p>“Of course.”</p>
<p>“Then I don’t see what we’re all worked up about,” she said, “The decision’s all made.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0041"><h2>41. Fragonard, Jean-Honore. The Lock. 1776-79</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Tom and Greg share a late night chat.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Night_in_paintings_(Western_art)#/media/File:Jean-Honor%C3%A9_Fragonard_009.jpg">the lock</a>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>sorry this wasn't up this morning! i got a promotion at work (!!!!!) and had to go in much earlier than usual!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was very late now. Probably after two in the morning or so. Greg was asleep, holding onto him like a koala or something. Tom knew he should sleep too. Marianne had decided to throw another party. For him, she said, to welcome him back, and so tomorrow would be a late night as well, but he couldn’t sleep. He hadn’t been sleeping that much since he got back. </p>
<p>He ran a gentle hand through Greg’s hair, and Greg sighed slightly in his sleep. Contently.</p>
<p>“Greg?” he whispered. He hated waking Greg up, but he needed to talk to him. The sooner he got whatever was on his chest off of it, the sooner he might get some decent fucking sleep.</p>
<p>“Mm,” Greg nuzzled down into the blankets.</p>
<p>“<i>Greg.</i>”</p>
<p>Greg sighed and woke up, squinting in the dark, “Tom? What’s wrong?”</p>
<p>“I need to talk to you,” Tom said. He wasn’t even sure what he was going to say, but he did need to talk to Greg. In the days since he’d returned, they hadn’t had much time alone that wasn’t sleeping, and there was so much he’d been thinking about saying for the past two years. Then again, things had always been easier with Greg at night, “Can we talk?”</p>
<p>“Sure,” Greg rubbed his eyes and sat up, “Here?”</p>
<p>Tom glanced around. This was as good a place as any. Hidden away from the rest of the world as it was. That was nice about Greg’s room, which was in the East Wing, while Marianne and Ewan had rooms on the opposite sides of the house. It’s probably why Greg would have been the only victim of that fire. He liked his privacy and it would have been his downfall. But that didn’t matter anymore. Now his out of the way bedroom was a small haven for the two of them to just <i>exist</i> undisturbed and alone. </p>
<p>“Is everything alright?” Greg asked. He sounded sleepy, and cocked his head at Tom, “Did something happen?”</p>
<p>“I’ve been thinking about you,” Tom said. He’d never been great at this kind of talk. Public speaking. Love confessions. Toasts. Whatever the fuck <i>this</i> was, “About what we’re going to be.”</p>
<p>“What are you talking about?” Greg asked quietly, and Tom heard a hint of sadness in his tone, “Aren’t- aren’t you happy here? Because I would understand if you weren’t. You could go back home if you wanted to. I wouldn’t stop you. If you were unhappy here. With me.”</p>
<p>“Oh honey no no no,” Tom quickly pulled Greg against him before Greg could follow that line of thought for too long, “Of course I’m happy here. No no, it’s nothing like that. This is my home now.”</p>
<p>He felt Greg grab onto the back of his shirt. That was fine. Tom also sometimes thought he was dreaming. Like Greg really <i>was</i> a ghost. The tighter Greg held him the more Tom believed his own senses. This was going to take some getting used to. </p>
<p>“I just can’t believe you’re here,” Greg said, though Tom hadn’t asked for any kind of explanation to the way Greg was holding onto him like he was, “I never thought I’d see you again.”</p>
<p>“I know,” he sighed, “I never thought I’d see you again either. That’s all. I just want, fuck Greg, I just wanted you to know that I missed you like crazy. That I don’t ever want to do that again.”</p>
<p>“I don’t want you to leave again,” Greg admitted, “I would let you but I don’t want you to.”</p>
<p>“That’s all I guess I wanted to say,” Tom replied, “I don’t know. I still think I’m imagining this. Life hasn’t been nice to me lately. I’m waiting for somebody to take you away from me. Like every other fucking thing in my life. I guess I sort of expected you to be dead. Like God had some kind of personal issue with me.”</p>
<p>“I don’t think so,” Greg pointed out, finally settling his head on Tom’s shoulder, “I don’t think God would have let you come back to me if He did. Was that what was on your mind?”</p>
<p>“I suppose so,” Tom nodded, “It’s alright Greg. I’m not unhappy here. Please don’t think that. I’ll go insane if you think that.”</p>
<p>“Alright,” Greg said cautiously, “but what’s wrong?”</p>
<p>“Nothing,” Tom said quietly, “Nothing’s wrong. I’m just coming to the realization that you’re not dead and that this is my new life.”</p>
<p>“You can go back home if you wanted to,” Greg said begrudgingly, “I mean, I won’t hold you here as a prisoner or something.”</p>
<p>“<i>This</i> is my home,” Tom replied firmly, “And this is where I want to be. Do you believe me?”</p>
<p>“Of course I do.”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry I wasn’t there last year,” Tom said.</p>
<p>“You don’t have to be sorry,” Greg replied, “I sort of hoped you and Shiv were happy and that was why.”</p>
<p>“No,” he shook his head, “But I thought about you. When it was noon here. I hoped you’d be there next year. I’m sorry I made you wait for me,” he laughed, “I’ve never apologized this much. I’m actually kind of an asshole. I don’t think sorry would normally be in my vocabulary.”</p>
<p>Greg frowned, “I don’t think you’re an ass Tom.”</p>
<p>“You’re probably the only one,” he kissed Greg’s forehead, “I’ve been extra nice to you I suppose.”</p>
<p>“Still I don’t think you speak kindly of yourself.”</p>
<p>“We’ll figure it out,” Tom said, laying back down and pulling Greg with him, “You and me. I know we’ll figure out whatever it is. Maybe get a house somewhere of our own. Let your grandfather have us out of his hair.”</p>
<p>Greg chuckled, “He’d probably buy it for us if that was the case.”</p>
<p>Tom knew it wasn’t his place to tell Greg about Ewan and Logan and the link between them. Maybe Greg had his own suspicions. Maybe Ewan would tell him one of these days. Greg would take it a lot better than Marianne would, that was true. </p>
<p>“Sorry I woke you up,” Tom muttered. </p>
<p>“I don’t mind. Sometimes I think I’m going to wake up and discover all of this was a dream. It’s nice waking up and seeing that it’s not.”</p>
<p>Tom nodded. He stared up at the bedroom ceiling, content with Greg’s weight on him. It was so strange, to be in this room, with Greg, with his things in the closet. When he’d visited this room the night he and Shiv had argued, it had been cold and deserted. Like a memorial. A perfectly preserved piece of history. But now it looked lived in, with shoes under the bed, and letters strew across the desk. Not like an exhibit at a museum but an honest to God bedroom. <i>His</i> bedroom. </p>
<p>“I know what you mean,” he said quietly, long after he was sure Greg had fallen back asleep. That habit remained true-- Greg was a sound sleeper. It was good to relearn things about each other. To see what was the same and what had changed in their separation. What was that saying? Absence makes the heart grow fonder?</p>
<p>Tom glanced down. </p>
<p>Well, whoever had said that first hit the nail on the head.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0042"><h2>42. O'Keeffe, Georgia. Starlight Night. 1917</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Tom hears Ewan's theory on time travel and <i>who</i> exactly, is allowed to change history.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <a href="https://collections.okeeffemuseum.org/object/1092/">starlight night</a>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“I don’t understand how he’s not dead,” Tom said, looking over at Greg over his wine. Marianne seemed to be listening to whatever John was saying, and Tom hoped that wasn’t a secret he had to carry anymore. Ewan seemed… less cold to him since he’d returned. Perhaps deep down he was grateful that Tom had, somehow, prevented Greg’s death and this was his way of showing it, “I mean, I thought we confirmed that the past couldn’t be changed.”</p>
<p>Ewan nodded. He’d aged even more since Tom had last seen him, but he still seemed sharp as a tack, and had enough energy to shout at Greg halfway across the dining room if the occasion called for it, and, since Tom had been back, the occasion <i>had</i> called for it several times, “I’ve been wondering that myself. I’ve a theory.”</p>
<p>“What is it?”</p>
<p>“From what I can tell-- and remember, this is all a best guess-- that even after all these years, God or time or whoever is running this shit show doesn’t think I ought to be here. Perhaps it was Logan who should have stayed, or Rose who should have lived. No matter. Maybe I’ll leave, and see my brother one last time,” he shook his head, “I digress. If I’m not meant to be here-- and unlike you, I’ve attachments in the future, then how could I have any impact on his life, when he was born in this time, when everything he knows is here, and now that you’ve returned, so is everything he loves.”</p>
<p>Tom nodded, “So you’re saying that <i>I’m</i> meant to be here, and that’s why I was able to tell him his fate? That if you had done it, he’d have died no matter what?”</p>
<p>“It’s just an idea. I really don’t know. But I believe that the moment you decided you were going to die here-- forgive the morbidity in that statement, you sealed both your fates.”</p>
<p>Tom thought back, “That was before he made me go back to 1985. I told him he wasn’t allowed to die because I would come back. That my life was here now. He told me I couldn’t come back until I had no obligations in the future. No wife, no children. Nothing. When my mother died, she took the last of my real obligations with her.”</p>
<p>Ewan shrugged, “I can’t exist here, solely, because my brother lives a hundred years from now. I live in two worlds. You don’t. Not anymore. History knew you were <i>committed</i> to it. Perhaps that’s why you were granted success. And perhaps I don’t know shit.”</p>
<p>All of the hypotheticals and time travel questions were enough to give anybody a headache. He thought Ewan’s idea made sense, but Tom also thought he might never know, exactly, what happened and why Greg didn’t die in 1860 like the bible said. But it wasn’t worth his confusion. Maybe sometimes good things just happened, and you didn’t need to analyze them to death. You just had to accept them and be happy.</p>
<p>“Go on,” Ewan shooed him away, “I’m retreating for the evening. But you’re young. Enjoy your party. Marianne!”</p>
<p>Marianne glanced over and saw her father waving. She excused herself from the conversation she was having with John-- Tom made a mental note to try and see if she’d told her family about him-- and came over, smiling at them both. Tom had already spoken at length with her since he’d returned, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of what <i>might</i> have been. Despite how Marianne and Ewan hounded Greg, it was  evident that they loved him <i>fiercely</i> and Tom could only begin to imagine how his young and violent death would have affected them. Especially her. </p>
<p>“I’d like to go upstairs Marianne, if you can tear yourself away from your new <i>friend</i> long enough,” Ewan said, and she took his elbow, “Goodnight Mr. Wambsgans.”</p>
<p>“Goodnight,” Tom said.</p>
<p>He watched them go, content in the fact that Marianne would not have to bury her son. However that came to be.</p>
<p>“What were you two talking about?” Greg asked, coming up behind him.</p>
<p>“You,” Tom turned and smiled. Greg handed him a glass of wine, “I’ll tell you about it later.”</p>
<p>“You want to get some fresh air?” Greg asked, nodding towards the backdoors, “It’s getting awfully warm in here.”</p>
<p>Tom agreed, and followed Greg outside onto the grounds. The temperature drop was immediate, and Tom didn’t realize he’d been so warm until he wasn’t anymore. </p>
<p>“Remember the night I taught you how to dance?” Tom asked. </p>
<p>“Of course I do,” Greg debated for a moment, then sat down on the grass. There was a slight slope, and Tom joined him, feet planted firmly in the dirt, “I’d never told anybody about me before that night. Not out loud at least. It was nice to say. I don’t know.”</p>
<p>“Have you gotten any better at dancing?”</p>
<p>Greg laughed. It was genuine and echoed a bit in the silence. </p>
<p>“Oh God no,” he shook his head, “I’m <i>terrible.</i>”</p>
<p>“That doesn’t really surprise me,” Tom said and took a sip of his wine, “You remember the night I told you about the moon landing? We were out on the grass like this.”</p>
<p>“And I kissed you.”</p>
<p>“Well somebody had to do it,” Tom reasoned. He leaned back on his elbows and looked up at the aforementioned moon. Funny. It was the same moon he’d looked at all his life. Maybe it was going to be the only constant now. The moon, and the sun, and the stars were the only part of his old life that had followed him to his new one, “I wasn’t going to.”</p>
<p>“How did Shiv take the divorce?”</p>
<p>“She asked me for it,” Tom replied. They’d only spoken a little bit about Shiv and his marriage. Tom knew he’d tell it all eventually, but Greg hadn’t been prying, “I don’t know if she knew something was wrong. Or if there was somebody else. But we just couldn’t make it work. I wrote her a letter and mailed it before I left. Just to tell her that we tried our best and I think that maybe I would always love her in a way.”</p>
<p>Greg nodded, “I wonder if we would have gotten along.”</p>
<p>“Probably not. Shiv and her family didn’t get along with very many people. You and her are so unalike it’s insane. But I think that’s good.”</p>
<p>“It’s alright that you still love her, you know. She was your wife,” Greg said, “If you were worried about that. I mean, I’m not overly concerned about her coming back to steal you away.”</p>
<p>“Oh? Would you get jealous?”</p>
<p>Greg looked back at him and smiled, “Most definitely.”</p>
<p>Tom tugged on the back of Greg’s jacket and pulled him down onto the grass as well with a dull <i>thump.</i></p>
<p>“Someone might see,” Greg whispered.</p>
<p>“It’s too dark,” Tom replied, “And we’re far enough away from the house. Come on. Would you kiss me?”</p>
<p>Greg laughed, “For the rest of your life.”</p>
<p>“I’m fucking holding you too that Greg.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0043"><h2>43. Roy, Marianne. Highland Winter. 1862</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Christmas Eve. 1862. Tom's new life.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>so that's that! this was a wild au concept, and i know that, but i appreciate every single one of you for indulging me!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Christmas Eve seemed to arrive quickly. Perhaps Tom had lost track of the days, distracted as he was by Greg and the life he had begun to build. But December twenty fourth arrived almost unannounced. The tree stood proud in the center of the room, the fire crackled away in the fireplace, and Tom and Marianne both stood back to admire her latest work, which she’d finished just morning and displayed above the fire. </p>
<p>“I don’t know about the red there,” she said, pointing to the painted horizon, where the sun was rising above a frozen lake, “It doesn’t look quite right.”</p>
<p>“But you’ve blended it perfectly into the sun. I don’t know why you doubt yourself. It’s gorgeous as always. Museum worthy, as I’ve told you before. Mark my words on this. One of these days there’ll be a Marianne Roy original hanging up somewhere for all the world to see.”</p>
<p>“You had better quit all that nonsense, it’s not necessary,” Marianne said, but her face was red, probably mostly from the wine, but it was clear he did flatter her, “But I see why my son fancies you so.”</p>
<p>“You don’t… mind? Really?” It wasn’t like Tom cared, exactly, if Marianne did mine, but Greg and his mother were close and he <i>would</i> be happier if he knew, if Marianne at least accepted the two of them. </p>
<p>Marianne frowned, “Why would I mind? I want him to be happy more than anything. But if you can get him to… manage his money a little better? I think if <i>you</i> were to be with him, he might have better luck with a job. And a place of his own. Your own, the two of you, I suppose. I told you once that I thought I might have liked to have had another child. I guess in a way, now I do. I <i>had</i> expected a daughter, but I think you’ll do nicely.”</p>
<p>“I’ll try to talk some sense into him,” Tom laughed. He had a brief memory flash by of Samantha telling him some people said Marianne had two children, and quickly waved it away. He was trying his best to keep the future and the now separate, “I only thought because I’m a <i>man</i> and I know you probably had a nice girl in mind for him. I know what you said but-”</p>
<p>She shrugged, “Once I did, but I just want him to be with someone who’ll love him and no one else. I don’t want him to be like I was once. That’s not something I want for anybody.”</p>
<p>This, Tom knew, was a bit of a veiled threat. But he understood it. And it wouldn’t matter, because she’d never have to make good on any threat. He had no intentions of hurting Greg.</p>
<p>“Don’t worry about that. You have my word.”</p>
<p>“Good,” she smiled, “I’m going to check on dinner. Emma’s told Cook some new recipes to try and I have to ensure they’ll meet my father’s approval. You know how he can be.”</p>
<p>She left him alone with the painting and his thoughts for a bit, until he heard someone come in, and by, the sounds of them tripping over something, he realized it was Greg.</p>
<p>“Would it be alright if I gave you your Christmas present early?” Greg asked, coming over to stand next to Tom, who turned a bit to look at him. He had a wrapped package in his hands-- it looked a bit like a book, “I’m too embarrassed to give it to you in front of my family.”</p>
<p>“You’re a little kid,” Tom said, “But sure, you can give it to me now. So long as I can give you yours tonight.”</p>
<p>Greg sputtered and pushed the present into Tom’s hands, “It’s not fair that you get to flirt with me so easily. It’s not my fault it’s easier when you’re from.”</p>
<p>He laughed and peeled off the wrapping paper, turning the book over in his hands. It was made of what looked like a pressed leather, and was probably hand bound. He flipped through the pages and realized, just then, that he’d seen this book before, the same night he fought with Shiv and went exploring the house. It wasn’t just Greg’s room he had come upon, but <i>their</i> room. He felt a little shiver go down his spine, despite the warmth of the room. He’d seen this before, passed by it casually like it was just an old journal and not the most important gift he was ever going to receive. </p>
<p>Greg rubbed the back of his neck, “I wrote to you, when you were gone. Just, in case you ever came back and wanted to know what you missed. I knew you’d need to have a working understanding of the time, you know, if you <i>did</i> end up coming back. Plus, I didn’t know how else to talk to you. I wrote letters for a bit, but I couldn't post them, so I wrote in here. You know, to keep it all in one place.”</p>
<p>“You’re such a romantic,” Tom said firmly. He put a hand on Greg’s cheek and kissed him, holding the journal to his chest, “You’re <i>such</i> a romantic Greg. I love you.”</p>
<p>“I know it’s not a terribly <i>expensive</i> gift, but I am still lacking a bit financially. I got distracted by you being back. I think my mother has a job for me in London when the New Year starts.”</p>
<p>“Mr. Hirsch goes to London,” Tom chuckled, “Might be fun to live there for a bit. I promise not to spoil history for you.”</p>
<p>“My Grandfather thinks I won’t last in the job past February but you know,” he shrugged, “Worth a try.”</p>
<p>“Glad to know some things haven’t changed much. But I have something for you too actually,” Tom said. He dug around in his pocket for the ring box. He’d taken to carrying it around recently because Greg was nosy. There hadn’t been a good time to give it to him before. This seemed perfect, “I know we can’t get married or anything, but after you gave me your mother’s locket I wanted to give you something of my parents as well.”</p>
<p>Greg cocked his head, “What?”</p>
<p>“This was my father’s wedding band,” Tom frowned, pulling the box out of his pocket, “My mother was going to offer me hers, but I, ah, explained the situation, and all she told me was that I should take his instead for you. It has their wedding date engraved inside of it. I think they would both like it if you had it.”</p>
<p>Gingerly, Greg accepted the box, like it was fragile and might break if he was too rough. He took the ring out and examined it, chuckling to himself at the date that hadn’t even happened yet, “Probably best if my mother doesn’t see that. I’m not sure how I’d explain it.”</p>
<p>“Probably best.”</p>
<p>“I love you,” Greg said, “You know that right? I’m so in love with you.”</p>
<p>“I know,” Tom chuckled at his own reference, “Oh Greg, you would have loved Star Wars.”</p>
<p>“What’s a star wars? Is that how they landed on the moon?”</p>
<p>“If Reagan had anything to say about it maybe,” Tom laughed, “Do I have a story for you. You just wait Greg. Come on, I’ll tell you all you could ever want to know.”</p>
<p>Greg held the ring box tight, and Tom did the same with his journal. The fire still crackled, and Tom felt that maybe Ewan was right. Maybe he did belong here, with Greg, about to regal him with the plot of Star Wars, and Greg <i>loved</i> him. Wasn’t that real? Wasn’t that what mattered in the end? Who cared if Tom never figured out the time travel and why it worked? It wouldn’t matter in the end, in the grand scheme of the world. Tom was where he was supposed to be.</p>
<p>“Tell me then. About the star wars,” Greg said, “Before dinner.”</p>
<p>“So,” Tom slid his arm through Greg’s, “It all starts a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So yes! here we go! hope you dig it</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>